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V-^-

4r /sfo.

CHAPMAN AND HALL'S SERIES

ORIGINAL WORKS

FICTION, BIOGRAFHT, AND GENERAL LITERATURE.

CHAPMAN AND HALL'S SERIES.

Works already Published,

THE HALF-SISTEBS. By the Author of *' Zoe." 2 yqIb. doth, IBs,

THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY ; ob. The Home Department.
By the Author of " The Falcon Family." Cloth, 9«.

WATFABING SEXTCHES among the Greeks and Turks, and on
THE Shores or the Danube. Bt a Seven Tears Resident in
Greece. Cloth, 9s,

RANTHORPE: A Noyel. Qoth, 9«.

LIVES OF LORD LOVAT. and DUNCAN FORBES, of CULLODEN.
From Original Sources. By John Hill Burton. Cloth, 9s,

CAMP AND BARRACK-ROOM , or; The Brttibh Army as it is.
By A LATE Stapf-Sbrgeant of the 18th Light Infantry.
Cloth, 9s,

FATHER DARCT : an Historical Romance. By the Author of
" Two Old Men's Tales," " Mount Sorel," &c. 2 vols, doth, 18*.

THE LIFE OF GEORGE CANNING. By Robert Bell, Author of
" Lives op the Poets," &c. Cloth, 9s,

THE FALCON FAMILY ; or, Toung Ireland. A Satirical Novel.
Second Edition. Cloth, 9s,

LONG ENGAGEMENTS : a Tale of the Affghan Rebellion.
Cloth, 9s,

T£[E LIFE OF MOZART, including his Correspondence. By Edward
Holmes. Cloth, 9*.

THE WHITEBOY : A Story of Ireland in 1822. By Mrs. S. C. Hall.
2 vols, cloth, ISs.

MOUNT SOREL ; or, The Heiress op the De Veres, A Novel.
By the Author of ♦* Two Old Men's Tales," &c. 2 vols, doth, 18«.

MARY BARTON:

TAIE OF MASCHESTEE LIFE.

***Howknoire8t ihon,' may the distressed Novel- Wright exckim, 'that I, here
where I sit, am the Foolishest of existing mortals ; that this my Long-ear of a flctl-
ttoTis Biography shall not find one and the other, into whose still longer ears it may
be the means, under Providence, of instilling somewhat?* We answer, 'None
knows, none can certainly know : therefore, write on, worthy Brother, eroi as thon
canst, even as it is given thee.* '*

Cailtle.

IN, TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND.

MDGCCXLVni.

C. WHITING, BBAUFORT HOUSE, 8TSANIX

1

"9limm mx, g&^rmann/ nimm hit mttf^t,
iDie i^ getrne breifad^ Mete !
3meen/ bie mit nut: ikberfit^renr
aSatren eeiftfge S^atuten.'*

PREFACE.

Three years ago I became anxious (from circum-
stances that need not be more fully alluded to) to
employ myself in writing a work of fiction. Living in
Manchester, but with a deep relish and fond admira-
tion for the country, my first thought was to find a
fi»me-work for my story in some rural scene ; and I
had aheady made a little progress in a tale, the period
of which was more than a century ago, and the place
on the borders of Yorkshire, when I bethought me
how deep might be the romance in the lives of some
of those who elbowed me daily in the busy streets
of the town in which I resided. I had always felt a

Vl PBEFACE.

deep sympathy with the care-worn men, who looked
as if doomed to struggle through their Uves in strange
alternations between work and want ; tossed to and fro
by circumstances, apparently in even a* greater degree
than other men. A Uttle manifestation of this sympathy,
and a little attention to the expression of feelings on
the part of some of the work-people with whom I was
acquainted, had laid open to me the hearts of one or two
of the more thoughtful among them ; I saw that they
were sore and irritable against the rich, the even tenor
of whose seemingly happy lives appeared to increase the
anguish caused by the lottery-like nature of their own.
Whether the bitter complaints made by them, of the
neglect which they experienced from the prosperous —
especially from the masters whose fortunes they had
helped to build up— were well-founded or no^ it is not for
me to judge. It is enough to say, that this belief of the
injustice and imkindness which they endure from their
fellow-creatures, taints what might be resignation to
God's will, and turns it to revenge in too many of the
poor uneducated factory-workers of Manchester.

The more I reflected on this unhappy state of things
between those so bound to each other by common in-
terests, as the employers and the employed must ever be,

PBEFACE. Vli

the more anxious I became to give some utterance to
the agony which, &om time to time, convulses this
ivanh people ; the agony of suiBfering without the sym-
pathy of the happy, or of erroneously believing that
such is the case. If it be an error, that the woes, which
come with ever-returning tide-like flood to overwhelm
the workmen in our manufacturing towns, pass unre-
garded by all but the sufierers, it is at any rate an error
so bitter in its consequences to all parties, that whatever
public effort can do in the way of legislation, or pri-
vate eflS>rt in the way of merciful deeds, or helpless
love in the way of ** widow's mites," should be done,
and that speedily, to disabuse the work-people of so
miserable a misapprehension. At present they seem to
me to be left in a state, wherein lamentations and tears
are thrown aside as useless, but in which the lips are
compressed for curses, and the hands clenched and
ready to smite.

I know nothing of Political Economy, or the theories'
of trade. I have tried to write truthfully ; and if my
accounts agree or clash with any system, the agreement
or disagreement is unintentional.

To myself the idea which I have formed of the state
of feeling amodg too many of the factory-people in Man-

viii PREFACE.

Chester, and wliich I endeavoured to represent in this
tale (completed above a year ago), has received some
confirmation from the events which have so recently
occurred among a similar class on the Continent.

OcTOBEBy 1848.

MART BARTOIf:

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

Oh ! 'tU hard, 'tis hard to be working

The whole of the liye-long day,
When all the neighbours about one

Are off to their jaunts and play.

There's Bichard he carries his baby,

And Mary takes little Jane,
And loYingly they'll be wandering

Through field and briery lane.

Manchester Soko.

There are some fields near Manchester^ well known
to the inhabitants as " Green Heys Fields," through
which runs a public footpath to a little village about
two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat
and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great
and usual recommendation of level tracts of land),
there is a charm about them which strikes even the
inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and

VOL. I, B

2 MABT BABTON:

feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but
thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manu-
facturing town, he left but half an hour ago. Here
and there an old black and white farm-house, with its
rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other
occupations than those which now absorb the popu-
lation of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons
may be seen the country business of hay-making,
ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries for
townspeople to watch ; and heice the artisan, deafened
with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen
awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life : the lowing
of cattle, the milk-maids' call, the clatter and cackle of
poultry in the old farm-yards. Tou cannot wonder,
then, that these fields are popular places of resort at
every holiday time; «nd you would not wonder, if you
could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one
particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a
crowded halting-place. Close by it is a deep, clear
pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy
trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only
place where its banks are shelving is on the side next
to a rambling farm-yard, belonging to one of those old-
world, gabled, black and white houses I named above,
overlooking the field through which the public foot^
path leads. The porch of this farm-house is covered
by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is
crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and
flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the
only drugget's shop within reach, and aUowed to grow

A TALE OF UANCHESTEB LIFE. 8

in scrambling and wild luxuriance — roses, lavender^
sage, balm (for tea), xosemaiy, pinks and wallflowers,
onions and jessamine, in most republican and indis-
criminate order. This farm-bouse and garden are within
a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading
irom the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided
by a hedge of hawthorn and bkck-thom ; and near this
stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that prim-
roses may often be found, and occasionally the blue
sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.

I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by
the masters, or a holiday seized in right of nature and
her beautiful spring time by the workmen but one
afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields
were much thronged. It was an early May evening—
the April of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen aU
the morning, and the roimd, soft, white clouds which
were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky,
were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threat-
ening. The softness of the day tempted forth the
young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered inta
life; and the wiUows, which that morning had had only
a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that
tender gray-green which blends so delicately with the
spring harmony of colours.

Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls,
whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came
by with a buoyant step. They were most of them
fiictory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of
that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, whicb

b2

4 MART BABTOK:

at mid-day or in fine weather was allowed to be merely
a shawl, but towards evening, or if the day were chilly,
became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch plaid,
and was brought over the head and hung loosely
down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque
fashion.

Their faces were not remarkable for beauty ; indeed,
they were below the average, with one or two excep-
tions ; they had dark hair^ neatly and classically ar«
ranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular
features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an
acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has
often been noticed in a manufacturing population.

There were also numbers of boys, or rather young
men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy
jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into
conversation with the girls, who, however, held them-'
selves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent
way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit
or obstreperous compliments of the lads. Here and
there came a sober quiet couple, either whispering
lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be ; and
if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an
infant, carried for the most part by the father, while
occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been
carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole
family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon to-
gether.

Sometime in the course, of that afternoon, two work-
ing men met with friendly greeting at the stile so

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 5

often named. One was a thorough specimen of a
Manchester man ; bom of factory workers^ and himself
bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the
mills. He was below the middle size and slightly made ;
there was almost a stunted look about him; and his
wan, colourless face, gave you the idea, that in his
childhood he had suffered from the scanty living con-
sequent upon bad times, and improvident habits. His
features were strongly marked^ though not irregular, and
their expression was extreme earnestness ; resolute either
for good or evil; a sort of latent, stern, enthusiasm. At
the time of which I write, the good predominated over
the bad in the countenance^ and he was one from whom
a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable
faith that it would be granted. He was accompanied
by his wife, who might, without exaggeration, have
been called a lovely woman, although now her face was
swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron.
She had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts ;
and somewhat of the deficiency of sense in her counte-
nance, which is likewise characteristic of the rural
inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the ma-
nufacturing towns. She was far advanced in pregnancy,
which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hys-
terical nature of her grief. The fiiend whom they met
was more handsome and less sensible-looking than
the man I have just described ; he seemed hearty
and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet
there was far more of youth's buoyancy in his appear-
ance. He was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while

6 MABTBABTON:

Us wife, a delicate, &agile4ooking woman, limping in
her gait, bore another of the same age ; little, feeble
twins,. inheriting the fiaU appearance of their mother.

The laat^mentioned man was the first to speak, while
ft sudden look of sympathy dinmied his gladsome fisuiie.
" Well, John, how goes it with you?" and, in a lower
voice, he added, " any news of Esther, yet ?" Mean-
while the wives greeted each other like dd friends, the
soft and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins
seeming to call forth only fieah sobs &om Mrs. Barton.

" Come, women," said John Barton, " you've both
walked far enough. My Mary expects to have her bed
in three weeks ; and as for you, Mr& Wilson, you
know you're but a cranky sort of a body at the best of
times." This was said so kindly, that no o£^ce could
be taken. " Sit you down here; the grass is well nigh
dry by this time; and you're neither of you nesh* folk
about taking cold. Stay," he added, with some ten-
derness, ^' here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under
you, to save the gowns, women always think so much
of ; and now, Mrs. Wilson, give me the baby, I may as
well carry him, while you talk and comfort my wife;
poor thii^, she takes on sadly about Esther."

These arrangements were soon completed : the two
women sat down on the blue cotton handkerchief of
their husbands, and the latter, each carrying a baby,
set off for a further walk ; but as soon as Barton had
turned his back upon, his wife, his countenance fell back
into an expression of gloom.

* *< Besh ;" Anglo-Sazoii». nesc, tender.

A TALE OV MAirCHSSTEB LIFE. 7

^ Then jou'to heard nothing of Estiher, poor lass ?"
9d:ed Wilson.

*< No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's
gone off with somebody. My ifife fiiets, and thinks
die's drom^ned herself, but I tell her, felka don't care to
put (m their best clothes to drown themselyes ; and Mrs.
Bsradshaw (where Ae lodged, you know), says the last
time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when die
came down stairs*, dressed in her Sunday gown, and
with a nisw ribbon in her bcmnet, and gloves on her
hands, like the lady she waa so £>nd of linking her-
self."

^ She was as pretty a creature aa ever the son
shone on. '

^^ Ay, die was a &rrantty'i' kss ; morels &e pity
DOW," added Barton, with a sigh. ''You see them
Buckinghamshire people as comes to work in Man^
diester, has quite a different look with than to us
Hanchester folk. You'll not see among the Man-
chester wenches such fresh rosy dieeks, or such black
luhes to gray eyes (making them look like black), as
my wife and Esther had. I nevex seed two such pretl^
women^ for sisters ; never. Not bo^ what beauty is a
sad snare. Here was Esther so puffed up, that there
was na holding her in. Her ^irit was always up,, if I
spoke CTer so littie in the way of advice to her ; my
wife spoiled her, it is true^ for you see she was so much
older than Es^er she waa more like a mother to her,
doing every thing for her."

* ^JfnmMj,** eomely, pteaaaiiit^IookiBg.

8 HABT BABTOK:

" I wonder she ever left you," observed his Mend.

" That's the worst of factory work, for girls. They
can earn so much when work is plenty, that they
can maintain themselves any how. My Mary shall
never work in a &ctory, that I'm determined on. You
see Esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off
her pretty face; and got to come home so late at night,
that at last I told her my mind: my missis thinks I spoke
crossly, but I meant right, for I loved Esther, if it was
only for Mary's sake. Says I, ' Esther, I see what you'll
end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils, and
stopping out when honest women are in their beds ; you'll
be a street-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to
think I'll have you darken my door, though my wife is
your sister.' So says she, ' Don't trouble yourself, John.
I'll pack up and be off now, for I'll never stay to hear
myself called as you call me.' She flushed up like a
turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her
eyes; but when she saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide
words in a house), she went and kissed her, and said she
was not so bad as I thought her. So we talked more
friendly, for, as I said, I liked the lass well enough, and
her pretty looks and her cheery ways. But she said
(and at the time I thought there was sense in what she
said) we should be much better friends if she went into
lodgings, and only came to see us now and then."

" Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd
cast her off, and said you'd never speak to her again."

** Folks always make one a deal worse than one is,"
said John Barton, testily. '^ She came many a time

A TALE OF MANCHBSTEB LIFE. 9

to our house after she left off Eving with us. Last
Sunday se'nnight — no ! it was this very last Sunday,
she came to diink a cup of tea with Maiy ; and that
was the last time we set eyes on her."

'' Was she any ways difierent in her manner?' asked
Wilson.

** Well, I don't know. I have thought several times
since, that she was a bit quieter, and more womanly-
like; more gentle, and more blushing, and not so
riotous and noisy. She comes in, toward four o'clock,
when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and
hangs her bonnet up on the old nail we used to call
hers, while she lived with us. I remember thinking
what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low stool by
Maiy, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor
way. She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly
and gently, Hke a child, that I could not find in my
heart to scold her, especially as Maiy was fretting al-
ready. One thing I do remember I did say, and pretty
sharply too. She took our Httle Maiy by the waist,
and "

" Thou must leave of calling her * little' Maiy, she's
growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a
summer's day ; more of her mother's stock than thine,."
interrupted Wilson.

" Well, well, I call her * little,' because her mother's
name is Mary. But, as I was saying, she takes Mary
in a coaxing sort of way, and, * Mary,' says she, ' what
should you think if I sent for you some day aud made

10 HAST BABXOSF :

a hdj o€ you.' So I could not stand sack talk as that
to my gill, and I said, ' Thou'd best not put that non?-
sense in the gid's head I can tell thee ; I'd la&er see
her earning her bread by the sweat of her browv as the
Bible tells her she should do, ay, diough she never got
butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady,
linoiiying shopmen aU morning, and screeching at her
pianny aU afiemoon, and going to bed wi&out lumng
done a good turn to any one of Giod^a (features buit
herself.' "

'^ Thou never could abide the gentlefolk/^ said Wil-
son, half amused at his Mend's vehemence.

'* And what good have iiiej ever done me ibs^ I
diould like them ?" adced Barton^ the latent fire
lighting up his eye: and bursting forth, he continued,
^^ If I amsic^ do they come and nurse me? If my
diild lies dying (as poor Tom lay^ with his white wan
£ps quivering, for want of better food than I could give
him), does the rich man. biing the wine or broth that
might save his li& ? If I am out of work for weeks in
the bad times, and winter comes, with black fix>st, and
ke^i east wind, and there is no coal for the gmte, and
no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen
through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share
his plenty with me, as he ought to da, if his religion
was not a humbug? When I lie on my death-bed,
and Mary (bless her) stands fretting, as I know die will
£cet," and here his voice Mtered a little, ^' will a rich
lady ccNue and take her to her own home if need be.

A TALK OT MA]fCHSdX£B LIFE. II

tilL ahe caxtlook round, and see wkat best to do ? No,
I tell jou, it's tbe poor, and the poor only, as does Back
things for the poor. Don't tibink to come over me mtb
&.e old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of
the poor. I aaj, if thej don't know, the j ought to know.
We are their skvea as long as we can work; we pile up
their fortunes with the sweat of our (rows; and yet we
arc to live as separate^ as if we were in two worlds; ay,
as separate as Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf be*
twis^ us: but I know who was best off then," and he
wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no
niir&. in it.

" Well, neighbour/' said Wilson, " all that may be
Tsery true, but what I want to know now is about
Esther — ^whenfid you last hear of her ?'

'^ Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a
very loving way> kissing both wife Mary, and daughter
Maiy (if I must not call her Etde), and shaking hands
with me; but all in a cheerful sort of manner, so we
&ou^it nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on
Wednesday night comes Mrs.. Biadshaw's son with
Esther'^s box, and presently Mis^Bradshaw follows with
the key; and when we began to talk, we found Esther
told her she was coming back to live with us, and
would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and
on Tuesday night she carried off a little bundle (her
best clotihes were on her back, as I said before), and
told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry ha»elf about the big
box, but bring it when she had tame. So of course she
thought she should find Esther with us ; and when she

12 MARY BARTON :

told her story, my missis set up sucli a screech, and fell
down in a dead swoon. Mary ran up with water for
her mother, and I thought so much about my wife, I
did not seem to care at all for Esther. But the next
day I asked all the neighbours (both our own and Brad-
shaw's), and they'd none of them heard or seen
nothing of her. I even went to a policeman, a good
enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd never spoke to
before because of his livery, and I asks him if his
^cuteness could find any thing out for us. So I believe
he asks other policemen; and one on 'em had seen a
wench, like our Esther, walking very quickly, with a
bimdle under her arm, on"] Tuesday night, toward
eight o'clock, and get into a hackney coach, near
Hulme Church, and we don't know the number, and
can't trace it no further. I'm sorry enough for the
girl, for bad's come over her, one way or another, but
Pm sorrier for my wife. She loved her next to me,
and Mary, and she's never been the same body since poor
Tom's death. However, let's go back to them ; your
old woman may have done her good."

As they walked homewards with a brisker pace,
Wilson expressed a wish that they still were the near
neighbours they once had been.

" Still our Alice Kves in the cellar under No. 14, in
Barber Street, and if you'd only speak the word she'd
be with you in five minutes, to keep your wife company
when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice's brother, and
perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none more
ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though

A TALE OF MAKCHE8TBB LIFE. 13

fihe may liave done a hard day's wash, there's not a child
ill within the street but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and
does sit up too, though may be she's to be at her work
by six next morning.''

'* She's a poor woman, and can fed for the poor,
Wilson/' was Barton's reply; and then he added, "Thank
you kindly for your offer, and mayhap I may trouble
her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm at work,
and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See,
there's Mary !" and the father's eye brightened, as in the
distance, among a group of girls, he spied his only
daughter, a bonny lassie of thirteen or so, who came
bounding along to meet and to greet her father, in a
manner which showed that the stem-looking man had
a tender nature within. The two men had crossed the
last stile while Mary loitered behind to gather some
buds of the coming hawthorn, when an over-grown lad
came past her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming, *' For old
^acquaintance sake, Mary."

" Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the
girl, blushing rosy red, more with anger than shame, as
she slapped his face. The tones of her voice called back
her fiither and his friend, and the aggressor proved to be
the eldest son of the latter, the senior by eighteen years
of his little brothers.

" Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling,
do ye each take a baby, for if Wilson's arms be like
mine they are heartily tired."

Mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with
a girl's fondness for infants, and with some little fore*

1ft HiOnr BASTON :

nght of the event soon to happen at home; while young
Wilson seemed to lose his xough, cubbidh natoie as he
crowed and cooed to his little brother.

'^ Twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em," said
the half'proud, half-weaiy &ther, as be bestowed a
smacldng kiss on the babe ere he parted with it.

A TALE 03r HHAJSfCS^BJSER LIFE, 15

CHAPTER n.

PoUy, put tlie Icettle on,

And let's hare tea !
Polly, put the kettle on,

And well all have tea.

" Hebe we are, wife ; didst thou think thou'd lost us 7*
quoth hearty-vcMcedWibon, as the two women rose and
shook themselves in preparation for iheir homeward
walk. Mrs. Barton was evidently soothed, if not
cheered, by the unburdening of her fears.and thoughts
to her friend ; and her approving look went far to second
her husband's invitation that the whole party should
adjourn from Gtreen Keys Fields to tea, at the Bartons'
house. The only faint opposition was raised by Mrs.
Wilson, on account of the lateness of the hour at which
they would probably return, which she feared on her
babies' account.

"Now, hold your tongue, missis, will you ?" said her
husband, good-tempcaredly. ** Don't you know them
brats never goes to sleep till long past ten ? and haven't
you a shawl, under which you can tuck one lad's head,
as safe as a bird's under its wing? And as for toother one,

16 MABY BABTON :

m put it in my pocket rather than not stay^ now we
are this far away from Ancoats."

*^ Or I can lend you another shawl,^' suggested Mrs.
Barton.

*' Ay, any thing rather than not stay."

The matter being decided, the party proceeded home,
through many half-finished streets, all so like one an-
other that you might have easily been bewildered and
lost your way. Not a step, however, did our friends
lose; down this entry, cutting off that comer, until they
turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a
little paved court, having the backs of houses at the end
opposite to the opening, and a gutter running through
the middle to carry off household slops, washing suds,
&c. Tlie women who lived in the court were busy
taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articbs of
linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low,
that if our friends had been a few minutes sooner, they
would have had to stoop very much, or else the half-wet
clothes would have flapped in their faces; but although
the evening seemed yet early when they were in the
open fields — among the pent-up houses, night, with its
mists, and its darkness, had already begim to fall.

Many greetings were given and exchanged between
the Wilsons and these women, for not long ago they
had also dwelt in this court.

Two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking
house-door, exclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter)
passed, "Eh, look! Polly Barton's gotten a sweet-
heart."

A TALE 07 HANCHE8TEB LIITE. 17

Of course this leferred to young Wilson, who stole a
look to see how Mary took the idea. He saw her
assume the air of a young fuiy, and to his next speech
she answered not a word.

Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her
pocket; and on[ entering the house-place it seemed as if
they were in total darkness, except one bright spot,
which might be a cat*s eye, or might be, what it was, a
red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal,
which John Barton immediately applied himself to
break up, and the efi^t instantly produced was warm
and glowing light in every comer of the room. To add
to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed lost in
the ruddy glow from the fire), Mrs. Barton lighted a dip
by sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfac-
torily in a tin candlestick, began to look further about
her, on hospitable thoughts intent. The room was
tolerably large, and possessed many conveniences. On
the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish
window, with a broad ledge. On each side of this,
hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now
drawn, to shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves.
Two geraniums, impruned and leafy, which stood on
the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers.
In the comer between the window and the fire-side was
a cupboard, apparently full of plates and dishes, cups
and saucers, and some more nondescript articles, for
which one would have fancied their possessors could find
no use — such as triangular pieces of glass to save
carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths.

VOL. I. C

18 MABY BABTON :

However, it was eyident Mrs. Barton was proud of her
crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open,
with a glance round of satisfMStion and pleasure. On
the opposite side to the door and window was the stair-
case, and two doors ; one of which (the nearest to the
fire), led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty
work, such as washing up dishes, might be done, and
whose shelves served as larder, and pantry^ and store-
room, and alL The other door, which was considerably
lower, opened into the coal-hole — ^the slanting closet
imder the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was
a gay-coloured piece of oil-doth laid. The place seemed
almost crammed with furniture (sure ogn of good times
among the nuUs). Beneath the window was a dresser
with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place was a
table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it was
made of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name
may be appHed to such humble mateiiaL On it,
resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned
tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in
the middle. The^fire-Ught danced merrily on this, and
reaUy (setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it
gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room«
It was in some measure propped up by a cnmson tea-
caddy, also of japan ware. A round table on one
branching leg really for use, stood in the corresponding
comer to the cupboard; and, if you can picture aU this
with a waahy, but dean stencilled pattern on the walls,
you can form some idea of John Barton's home.
The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the

A TALE OV HAKCHB8TEB LIFE. 19

XDerry chattor of cups and saucers began, ihe women
disburdened themselves of their out-of-door things, and
sent Mary up stairs mth th^n. Then came a long
whispering, and chinfcing of money, to which Mr. and
Mrs. Wilson were too polite to attend; knowing, as
they did full well, that it all related to the preparations
for hospitality ; hospitality that, in their turn, they
fihould have such pleasure in ofiering. So they tried to
be busily occupied with the diildren, and not to hear
Mrs. Barton's directions to Mary.

^^ Run, Mary dear, just round the comer, and get
some freak eggs at Tipping's (you may get one a-piece,
that will be five-pence), and see if he has any nice ham
cut, that he would let us have a pound of."

^* Say two pounds, missis, and don't be stingy,"
dbdmed in the husband.

^ Well, a poimd and a half, Mary. And get it
Cumberland ham, for Wilson comes from there-away,
and it will have a sort of relish of home with it he'U
like, — and Mary" (seeing the lassie fain to be off),
^^ you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of
bread — mind you get it firesh and new — and, and —
that's all, Maiy."

'' No, it's not all,*^ said her husband. '^ Thou must
get sizpennyworth of rum, to warm the tea ; thou'U
get it at the ^ Grapes.' And thou just go to Alice
Wilson ; he says she lives just right round the comer,
under 14, Barber Street" (this was addressed to his wife),
^^ and tell her to come and take her tea with us ; she^ll

C2

20 MABT BABTON :

like to see her brother, I'll be bound, let alone Jane and
the twins."

'^ If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer,
for we have but half-a-dozen, and here's six of us," said
Mrs. Barton.

*^ Pooh ! pooh ! Jem and Mary can drink out of one,
surely/^

But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice
brought her tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to
be her sharing any thing with Jem.

Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been
out all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks
and medicine, for in addition to her invaluable quaHties
as a sick nurse and her worldly occupation as a washer-
woman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge
and field simples ; and on fine days, when no more
profitable occupation offered itself, she used to ramble
off into the lanes and meadows as far as her legs could
carry her. This evening she had returned loaded with
nettles, and her first object was to light a candle and
see to hang them up in bunches in every available
place in her cellar room. It was the perfection of clean-
liness : in one comer stood the modest-looking bed,
with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall
filling up the place where the corresponding one should
have been. The floor was bricked, and scrupulously
clean, although so damp that it seemed as if the last
washing would never dry up. As the cellar window
looked into an area in the street, down which boys

A TALE OF UAKGHEST&R LIFE. 21

might throw stones, it was protected by an outside
shelter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of
hedge-row, ditch, and field plants, which we are accus-
tomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect
either for good or for evil, and are consequently much
used among the poor. The room was strewed, himg,
and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no veiy
fragrant odour in their process of drying. Li one comer
was a sort of broad hanging shelf, made of old planks,
where some old hoards of Alice's were kept. Her little
bit of crockery ware was ranged on the mantelpiece,
where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A
flmall cupboard contained at the bottom coals, and at the
top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her frying pan, tea-
pot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a bottle,
S8 well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth
which Alice sometimes was able to manufacture for a
^ck neighbour.

After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was
busy trying to light her fire with the damp coals, and
half green sticks, when Mary knocked.

*' Come in," said Alice, remembering, however, that
she had barred the door for the night, and hastening to
make it posdble for any one to come in.

" Is that you, Mary Barton?" exclaimed she, as the
light from her candle streamed on the girl's face. *' How
you are grown since I used to see you at my brother's I
Come in, lass, come in."

** Please," said Mary, almost breathless, ** mother says
you're to come to tea, and bring your cup and saucer,

22 MABT BABTOH :

for George and Jane Wilson is vdih, ii8» and the twiaSy
and Jem. And you're to make haste, pleaae."

^' I'm sore it's very neighbourly and kind in your
mother, and 111 come, with many thanks. Stay, Maiy,
has your mother got any netdes for spring diink? If
ahe hasn't ni take her some.*'

« No, I don't think she has."

Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a giil of
thirteen, fond of power, was the more interesting part oi
her errand — ^the money-spending part. And well and
ably did she perform her business, returning home with
a little bottle of rum^ and the ^gs in one hand, while
her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white
smoke-flavoured, Cumberland ham, wrapped up in
paper.

She was at home, and fiTing ham, before Alice had
chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked her door,
and walked in a very foot-sore manner as £tr as John
Barton's. What an aspect of comfort did his houseplace
present, after her himihle cellar. She did not think of
comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of
the fire, the bright light that revelled in every comer
of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounda
of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, fzizzling ham. With
a little old-&shioned curtsey she shut the door, and re-
plied with a loving heart to the boisterous and soiprised
greeting of her brother.

And now all preparations bdng made, the party sat
down. Mrs. Wilson in the pest of honour, the rocking
chair on the light hand side of the fire, musing her

A TALB OF XAKOHESTEB LIFE. 23

baby, while its father^ in an oppoeite an^•chair, tried
mainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk.

Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do any thin^
bat sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart
she longed to be able to saperintend the frying of ibe
ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she
broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very com-
fortable portion of confidence in her own culinaiy
powers. Jem stood awkwardly leaning against the
dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt's speeches,
whicb gave him, he thought, the ab of being'a little boy ;
whereas be considered himself as a young man, and not
80 very young neither, as in two months he would be
eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the
tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every
now and then his wife's face flushed and contracted as
if in pain

At length the business actually began. Enives and
forks, cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices
were still, for human beings were hungry, and had no
time to speak. Alice first broke silence ; holding her
tea-cup wi& the manner of one proposing a toast, she
said, '^ Here's to absent fiiends. Friends may meet,
but mountains never."

It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly
feh. Every one thought of Esther, the absent Esther;
and Mrs. Barton put do\vn her food, and could not hide
the fast dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her
tongue out.

It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all

M MABT BABTON ;

had been said and suggested in tKe fields that could be
said or suggested, eveiy one had a wish to say some-
thing in the way of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and a
dislike to talk about any thing else while her tears fell
fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife and
children, set off early home, not before (in spite of
mal-a-prapos speeches) they had expressed a wish that
such meetings might often take place, and not before
John Barton had given his hearty consent ; and de-
clared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they
would have just such another evening.

"I will take care not to come and spoil it," thought
poor Alice ; and going up to Mrs. Barton she took her
hand almost humbly, and said, " You don't know how
sorry I am I said it."

To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy
into her eyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her
neck, and kissed the self-reproaching Alice. "You
didn't mean any harm, and it was me as was so foolish ;
only this work about Esther, and not knowing where
she is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good night, and
never think no more about it. God bless you, Alice."

Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that even-
ing in her after life, did she bless Mary Barton for
these kind and thoughtful words. But just then all
she could say was, ** Good night, Mary, and may God
bless y(w."

A TALE OV UANCBE8TSB LIFE. 25

CHAPTER m.

But when the mom came dim and sad,

And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed— she had

Another mom than ours I

Hood.

In the middle of that same night a neighbour of th^
Bartons was roused from her sound, well-earned sleep,
by a knocking, which had at first made part of her
dream; but starting up, as soon as she became con-
vinced of its reality, she opened the window, and
asked who was there ?

" Me, John Barton," answered he, in a voice tremu-
lous with agitation. '* My missis is in labour, and, for
the love of God, step in while I run for th' doctor,
for she's fearful bad."

While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the
window still open, she heard cries of agony, which
resounded in the little court in the stiUness of the night.
In less than five minutes she was standing by Mrs.
Barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified Mary, who
went about, where she was told, like an automaton; her
eyes tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and

26 UABT BASXON:

uttering no sound, except when her teeth chattered
for very nervousness.

The cries grew worse.

The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated
rings at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding
who it was that made this sudden call upon his services;
and then he begged Barton just to wait while he dressed
himself, in order that no time might be lost in finding
the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with
impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came
down; and walked so fast homewards, that the medical
man several times asked him to go elcwer.

" Is she so very bad?* asked he.

" Worse, much worser than ever I saw her before,*^
replied John.

No! she was not — she was at peace. The cries
were stall for ever. John had no time for listening.
He opened the latched door, stayed not to light a
candle for the mare ceremony of showing his companion
up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two
minutes was in the room, where lay the dead wife^
whom he had loved with all the power of his strong
heart. The doctor stumbled up stairs by the fire-light,
and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which
at once told him the state of thiogs. The room was
still, as he, with habitual tip-toe step, approached the
poor frail body, whom nothing now could more dis-
turb. Her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face
broried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into
her mouth, to keep down the choking sobs. The hus-
band stood £ke one stupified. The doctor questioned

A TALE OF 1CAKCHE8TSB LIFE. 87

ihe neighbom in whispera, and then approacUng Bar-
ton, said, ^' You mnat go doim stairs. This is a great
shock, bnt bear it like a man. Go down.''

He went medianically and sat down on the fixst
dbair. Hehadnohope. The look of death was too dear
upon her &ce. Still, when he heard one or two nnusoal
noises, the thought burst on him that it might only be
a trance^ a fit, a — he did not well know what, — but
not death! Oh, not death I And he was starting up
to go up stairs again, when the doctor's heayy cautions
creaking footstep was heard on the stairs. Then he
knew what it reaUj was in the chamber above.

*' Nothing could have saved her — ^there has been
some shock to the system — ^" and so he went on ; but,
to rmheeding ears, which yet retained his words to
ponder on ; words not for immediate use in conveying
sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory^
£ir a more convenient season. The doctor seeing the
state of the case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy,
thou^t it best to go^ and accordingly wished him
good-night — but there was no answer, so he let himself
out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid,
flo stilL He heard the sounds above too, and knew what
they meant.' He heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in
which his wife kept her clothes, pulled open. He saw
the neighbour come down, and blunder about in search
of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted,
and wfy she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor
ofier to help. At last she went, with some kindly-
meant words (a text of comfort, which fell upon a

28 HAB7 BABTON :

deafened ear), and something about '' Mary/' but which.
Mary he could not tell, in his bewildered state.

He tried to realise it, to think it possible. And
then his mind wandered off to other days, to far dif-
ferent times. He thought of their courtship ; of his
first seeing her, an awkward, beautiful rustic, far to6
£hifUess for the delicate factory work to which she
was apprenticed ; of his first gift to her, a bead neck-
lace, which had long ago been put by, in one of the
deep drawers of the dresser, to be kept for Mary. He
wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange
curiosity he got up to feel for it ; for the fire by this
time was well-nigh out, and candle he had none. His
groping hand fell on the piled-up tea things, which at
his desire she had left unwashed till morning — ^they
were all so tired. He was reminded of one of the
daily little actions, which acquire such power when
they have been performed for the last time, by one we
love. He began to think over his wife's daily round
of duties; and something in the remembrance that these
would never more be done by her, touched the source of
tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had
mechanically helped the neighbour in all the last atten-
tions to the dead ; and when she was kissed, and spoken
to soothingly, tears stole quietly down her cheeks : but
she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till she
ahould be alone. She shut the chamber-door softly,
After the neighbour had gone, and then shook the bed
by which she knelt, with her agony of sorrow. She
jepeated, over and over again, the same words ; the

A TALB OF UAKCHESTSB LIFE. 29

same vain^ unanswered address to lier who was no
more. '' Oh^ mother! mother, are you really dead I
Oh, mother, mother V*

At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind
that her -violence of grief might disturb her father. All
was still below. She looked on the face so changed,
and yet so strangely like. She bent down to kiss it. ^
The cold, unyielding flesh struck a shudder to her
heart, and, hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped
the candle, and opened the door. Then she heard the
sobs of her father's grief ; and quickly, quietly, stealing
down the steps, she knelt by him, and kissed his hand.
He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief would
not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her
terrified cries (which she could not repress), rose upon
his ear, he checked himself.

" Child, we must be all to one another, now she is
gone," whispered he.

** Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me I
ni do any thing."

" I know thou wilt. Thou must not firet thyself ill,
that's the first thing I ask. Thou must leave me, and
go to bed now^ like a good girl as thou art."

** Leave you, father ! oh, don't say so."

" Ay, but thou must ! thou must go to bed, and try
and sleep ; thou'lthave enough to do and to bear, poor
wench, to-morrow."

Mary got up, kissed her &ther, and sadly went up
stairs to the little closet, where she slept. She thought
it was of no use undressing, for that she could never,
never sleep, so threw herself on her bed in her dothes,^

30 MAST BAKTON :

and be£bie ten minutes had passed away, llie paasionate
gnef of youth had subsided into sleep.

Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance,
both from his stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow.
He could think on what was to be done^ could plan for
the funeral, could calculate the necessity of soon return-
ing to his worky as the extiaTBgance of the past night
would leave them short of money, if he long remained
away from the mill. He was in a club, so that money
was provided for the burial These things Settled in his
own mindy he recalled the doctor's words, and bitterly
thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had,
in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister.
His feelings towards Esther almost amounted to curses.
It was she who had brought on all this sorrow. Her
giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had wrought this
woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged
with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart
against her for ever.

One of the good influences over John Barton's life had
departed that night. One of the ties which bound him
down to the gentle humanities of earth was loosened,
and henceforward the neighbours all remarked he was a
changed man. His gloom and his sternness became ha-
bitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate.
But never to Mary. Between the £tther and the
daughter there existed in full force that mysterious bond
which unites those who have been loved by one who is
now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to
others, he humoured Mary with tender love ; she had
more of her own way than is common in any rank with

A TALE OF HANGHE8TBB LIFE. 31

girls of her age. Part of this was the neoesaty of the
case ; for, of ooursey all the money went through her
hands, and the household arrangements were guided by
her will and pleasure. But part was her father's indul-
gence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual sense
and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own
times for seeing her associates.

With all this, Maiy had not her Other's confidence in
the matters which now began to occupy him, heart and
soul ; she was aware that he had joined clubs, and be-
come an active member of a trades' union, but it was
hardly likely that a girl of Mary^s age (even when two or
three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should
care much for the ^|fierences between the employers
and the employed, — an eternal subject for agitation in
the manufacturing districts, which, however it may be
hilled for a time, is sure to break forth again with fresh
violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its
apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the
breasts of a few.

Among these few was John Barton. At all times it
is a bewildering thing to the poor weaver to see his em-
ployer removing from house to house, each one grander
than ibe last, till he ends in building one more magnifi-
cent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern,
oor sells his ttiiII to buy an estate in the country^ while
all the time the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows
are the real makers of this wealth, is struggling on for
bread for their children, through the vicissitudes of low-
ered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed, &c.
And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand

32 HABT BABTON :

(at least partially) that there are not buyers enough ia
the market to purchase the goods already made, and
consequently that there is no demand for more ; when
lie would bear and endure much without complaining,
could he also see that his employers were bearing their
share; he is, I say, bewildered and (to use his own word)
'^ aggravated" to see that all goes on just as usual with
the mill-owners. Large houses are still occupied, while
spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty, because
the families that once occupied them are obliged to live
in rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets,
concerts are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for
expensive luxuries still find daily customers, while the
workman loiters away his unemplfjred time in watching
these things, and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining
wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain
for enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying
life of those near and dear to him. The contrast is too-
great. Why should he alone sufier from bad times ?

I know that this is not really the case ; and I know
what is the truth in such matters : but what I wish to
impress is what the workman feels and thinka True,
that with child-like improvidence, good times will often
dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all pru-
dence and foresight.

But there are earnest men among these people, men
who have endured wrongs without complaining, but
without ever forgetting or forgiving those whom (they
believe) have caused all this woe.

Among these was John Barton. His parents had

r^

A TALE OF HANCHE8TEB LIFE. S3

sii£^red, his mother had died from absolute want of the
necessaries of life. He himself was a good, steady
workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady em-
ployment. But he spent all he got with the confi-
dence (you may also call it improvidence) of one who
was willing, and believed himself able, to supply all his
wants by his own exertions. And when his master
suddenly failed, and all hands in that mill were turned
back, one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr.
Hunter had stopped, Barton had only a few shillings to
rely on ; but he had good heart of being employed at
some other mill, and accordingly, before returning
home, he spent some hours in going from factory to
factory, asking for work. But at every mill was some
sign of depression of trade ; some were working short
hours, some were turning off hands, and for weeks
Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was
during this time his little son, the apple of his eye, the
cynosure of all his strong power of love, fell ill of the
scarlet fever.. They dragged him through the crisis,
but his life hung on a gossamer thread. Every thing,
the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on
generous living, to keep up the little fellow's strength,.
in the prostration in which the fever had left him.
Mocking words! when the commonest food in the
house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried
credit ; but it was worn out at the little provision shops,
which were now suffering in their turn. He thought
it would be no sin to steal, and would have stolen ; but
he could not get the opportunity in the few days the.

TOL. I. J>

34 MART BABTOK :

child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal
pitch of ravenousness^ but with the bodily pain 'swal*
lowed up in anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood
at one of the shop windows where all edible luxuries
are displayed ; haunches of venison, Stilton cheeses,
moulds of jelly — all appetising sights to the common
passer by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Himter!
She crossed to her carriage, followed by the shopman
loaded with purchases for a party. The door was
quickly slammed to, and she drove away ; and Barton
returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his
heart, to see his only boy a corpse !

You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his
heart against the employers. For there are never want-
ing those who, either in speech or in print, find it their
interest to cherish such feelings in the working classes ;
who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power
at their command ; and who use their knowledge with
unrelenting purpose to either party.

So while Mary took her own way, growing more
spirited every day, and growing in her beauty too, her
father was chairman at many a trades* union meeting ;
a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a delegate
himself ; a Chartist, and ready to do any thing for his
order.

But now times were good ; and all these feelings
were theoretical, not practical. His most practical
thought was getting Mary apprenticed to a dressmaker;
for he had never left off disliking a factory life for a
girl, on more accounts than one.

A TALE OF MAKCBESTER LIFS. 85

Mary must do someihiDg. The factories being, as I
said, out of the question, there were two things open —
going out to service, and the dressmaking business ;
and against the first of these, Mary set herself with aU
the force of her strong will. What that will might
have been able to achieve had her father been against
her, I cannot tell ; but he disliked the idea of parting
"with her, who was the light of his hearth, the voice of
his otherwise silent home. Besides^ with his ideas and
feelings towards the higher classes, he considered do-
mestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering of
artificial wants on the one side, a giving-up of every right
of leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other.
How far his strong exaggerated feelings had any foun-
dation in truth, it is for you to judge. I am afraid that
Mary s determination not to go to service arose from
&x less sensible thoughts on the subject than her
father's. Three years of independence of action (since
her mother's death such a time had now elapsed) had
little inclined her to submit to rules as to hours and
associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas of
propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossip-
ing with a merry neighbour, and working night and
day to help one who was sorrowful. Besides all this,
the sayings of her absent, her mysterious aunt, Esther,
had an unacknowledged influence over Mary. She knew
die was very pretty; the factory people as they poured
firom the mills, and in their freedom told the truth
(whatever it might be) to every passer-by, had early let
Mary into the secret of her beauty. If their remarks

d2

36 HABT BABXON :

had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always
young men enough, in a different rank from her own>
who were willing to compliment the pretty weaver's,
daughter as they met her in the streets. Besides, trust
a girl of sixteen for knowing well if she is pretty j
concerning her plainness she may be ignorant So
with this consciousness she had early determined that,
her beauty should make her a lady ; the rank sh»
coveted the more for her father's abuse; the rank,
to which she firmly believed her lost Aunt Esther
had arrived. Now, while a servant must often drudge
and be dirty, must be known as a servant by all who
visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's apprentice,
must (or so Mary thought) be always dressed with a
certain regard to appearance; must never soil her hands,,
and need never redden or dirty her face with hard
labour. Before my telling you so truly what folly-
Mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption
in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of six-
teen years of age in every class, and under all circum-
stances. The end of all the thoughts of father and.
daughter was, as I said before, Mary was to be a dress- ,

maker ; and her ambition prompted her imwilling i

father to apply at all the first establishments, to know I

on what terms of painstaking and zeal his daughter '

might be admitted into ever so humble a workwoman's ,

situation. But high premiums were asked at all ; poor |

man I he might have known that without giving up a
day's work to ascertain the fact. He would have been
indignant, indeed, had he known that if Mary had

A TALE OE* MAKGHESTEB LIFE. 37

accompanied Um, tlie case might have been rather
difierent, as her beauty would have made her desirable
as a show- woman. Then he tried second-rate places ;
tit all the payment of a sum of money was necessary,
and money he had none. Disheartened and angry he
went home at night, declaring it was time lost ; that
dressmaking was at all events a toilsome business* and
not worth learning. Mary saw that the grapes were
sour, and the next day set out herself, as her father
could not afford to lose another day's work ; and before
night (as yesterday's experience had considerably
lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself as appren-
tice (so called, though there were no deeds or indentures
to the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and
dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off
Ardwick Green, where her business was duly an-
nounced in gold letters on a black ground, enclosed in
a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front parlour
window ; where the workwomen were called ** her young
iadies ;" and where Mary was to work for two years
without any remuneration, on consideration of being
taught the business ; and where afterwards she was to
dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid
quarterly, because so much more genteel than by week),
a very small one, divisible into a minute weekly pit-
tance. In summer she was to be there by six, bringing
her day's meals during the first two years ; in winter
she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time for
returning home at night must always depend upon the
quantity of work Miss Simmonds had to do.

38 MABT BARTON :

And Maiy was satisfied ; and seeing this, her faiher
was contented too^ although his words were grumbling
and morose ; but Maiy knew his ways, and coaxed and
planned for the future so cheerily, that both went to
bed with easy if not happy hearts.

A TAIiB or aiANCHBSTBB UTB. 89

CHAPTER IV.

[ To eavy nought beneath the ample sky ;
To mourn no ctU deed, no honr mis-ipent ;
And, like a living violet, silentlj
Betum in sweets to^Heaven what goodness lent.
Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.

Elliott.

Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed
since to have swept away all trace of poor Mary
Barton. But her husband still thought of her, although
^th a calm and quiet grief, in the silent watches of the
i^ht: and Mary would start from her hard-earned
sleep, and think in her half-dreamy, half-awakened
state, she saw her mother stand by her bed-side> as she
used to do '* in the days of long-ago;*' with a shaded
candle and an expression of ineffiible tenderness^ while
ske looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbed
her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and
blowing it was a dream ; and still, in all her troubles
and perplexities, her heart called on her mother for aid^
and she thought, <^ If mother had but livedo she would

40 HABY BABTOK :

have helped me." Forgetting that the woman's soirowa
are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's^ even by
the mighty power of a mother's love ; and unconscious
of the fact, that she was far superior in sense and spirit
to the mother she mourned. Aunt Esther was ^still
mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of
wondering and began to forget. Barton stiU attended his
club, and was an active member of a trades' union ;
indeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of
Mary's return in the evening was so imcertain ; and,
as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained all
night. His chiefest friend was still George Wilson,
although they had no great sympathy on the questions
that agitated Barton's mind. Still their hearts were
bound by old ties to one another, and the remembrance
of former times gave an unspoken charm to their meet-
ings. Our old friend, the cub-like lad, Jem Wilson,
had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man^
with a sensible face enough ; nay, a face that might have
been handsome, had it not been here and there marked
by the small-pox. He worked with one of the great
firms of engineers, who send from out their towns of
workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of
the Czar and the Sultan. His father and mother were
never weary of praising Jem, at all which commendation
pretty Mary Barton would toss her head, seeing clearly
enough that they wished her to understand what a
good husband he would make, and to favour his love,
about which he never dared to speak, whatever ey^s
and looks revealed.

A TALE OF UANCHESTEB LIFE. 41

One day, in the early winter time, when people wert
provided with warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to
wear out, and when, accordingly, business was rather
slack at Miss Simmonds, Mary met Alice Wilson, coming
home from her half-day's work at some tradesman's
house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other;
indeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the
motherless girl, the daughter of her whose forgiving
kiss had so comforted in many sleepless hours. So
there was a warm greeting between the tidy old woman
and the blooming young work-girl; and then Alice ven«
tured to ask if she would come in and take her tea with
her that very evening.

" You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with
an old woman like me, but there's a tidy young lass as
lives in the floor above, who does plain work, and now
and then a bit in your own line, Mary ; she's grand-
daughter to old Job Legh, a spinner, and a good girl
she is. Do come, Mary, I've a terrible wish to make
you known to each other. She's a genteel-looking
lass, too."

At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the
intended visitor was to be no other than Alice's nephew;
but Alice was too delicate-minded to plan a meeting,
even for her dear Jem, when one would have been an
unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from her apprehen-
rion by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. HoW
busy Alice felt ! it was not often she had any one to tea ;
and now her sense of the duties of a hostess were almost
too much for her. She made haste home, and lighted

42 MABT BABTON :

the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to make
it bum the faster. For herself she was always patient,
she let the coals take their time. Then she put on her
pattens, and went to fill her kettle ^t the pump in the
next court, and on the way she borrowed a cup ; of odd
saucers she had plenty, serving as plates when occasion
required. Half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a pound
of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages ; but
this was an unusual occasion. In general, she used herb-
tea for herself, when at home, unless some thoughtful
mistress made her a present of tea-leaves firom her more
abundant household. The two chairs drawn out for
visitors, and duly swept and dusted ; an old board ar-
ranged with some skill upon two old candle-boxes set
on end (rather ricketty to be sure, but she knew the
seat of old, and when to sit lightly; indeed the whole
ajBTair was more for apparent dignity of position than
for any real ease) ; a little, very little round table put just
before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily;
her unlackered, ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged
with 4 black tea-pot, two cups with a red and white
pattern, and one with the old friendly willow pat-
tern, and saucers, not to match (on one of the extra
supply, the lump of butter flourished away); all these
preparations complete, Alice began to look about her
with satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could
be done to add to the comfort of the evening. She took
one of the chairs away from its appropriate place by the
table, and putting it close to the broad large hanging shelf
I told you about when I first described her cellar-dwell*

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 43

ing, and mounting on it, she palled towards her an old
deal box, and took thenoe a quantity of the oat bread
of the north, the clap-bread of Cumberland and West-
moreland, and descending carefully with the thin cakes
threatening to break to pieces in her hand, she placed
them on the bare table, with the belief that her visitors
would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her
childhood. She brought out a good piece of a four-
pound loaf of common household bread as well, and then
sat down to rest, really to rest, and not to pretend, on
one of the rush-bottomed chairs. The candle was ready
to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was awaiting its
doom in its paper parcel; all was ready.

A knock at the door I It was Margaret, the young
workwoman who lived in the rooms above, who having
heard the bustle, and the subsequent quiet, began to
think it was time to pay her visit below. She was a
sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a
careworn look ; her dress was humble and very simple,
consisting of some kind of dark stuff gown, her neck
being covered by a drab shawl or large handkerchief,
pinned down behind and at the sides in front. The old
woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit
down on the chair she had just left, while she balanced
herself on the board seat, in order that Margaret might
think it was quite her free and independent choice to
sit there.

" I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton. She's
quite grand with her late hours," said Alice, as Mary
still delayed.

44 HABY BABTOK :

The truth was, Mary waB dressing herself; yes, td
borne to poor old Alice's — ^she thought it worth white
to consider what gown she should put on. It wafe
tiot for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure ; no,
they knew each other too well. But Mary liked
making an impression, and in this it must be owned
she was pretty often gratified — and there was this strange
girl to consider just now. So she put on her pretty
new blue merino, made tight to her throat, ber little
linen collar and linen cu£&, and sallied forth to impress
poor gentle Margaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice,
who never thought much about beauty, had never told
Margaret how pretty Mary was ; and, as she came iu
half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaret
could hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down
her long black lashes with a sort of dislike of the very
observation she had taken such pains to secure. Can
you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the tea, to pour
it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and
help again to clap-bread and bread-and-butter? CaA
you fancy the delight with which she watched her
piled-up clap-bread disappear before the hungry girls,
end listened to the praises of her home-remembered
dainty ?

** My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any
north-country person — bless her I She knew how good
such things taste when far away from home. Not, but
what every one likes it. When I was in service my
fellow-servants were alwajrs glad to share with me. Eh,
it's a long time ago, yon."

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 45

^* Do tell us about it, Alice/' said Margaret.

"Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was
BsiOTe mouths at home than could be fed. Tom, that's
Will's father (you don't know Will, but he's a sailor
lK> foreign parts), had come to Manchester, and sent
word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both
for lads and lasses. So father sent George first (you
know George, well enough, Mary), and then work was
scarce out toward Burton, where we lived, and father said
I maun try and get a place. And George wrote as
how wages were far higher in Manchester than Miln*
thorpe or Lancaster; and, lasses, I was young and
thoughtless, and thought it was a fine thing to go so far
from home. So, one day, th' butcher he brings us a
letter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place — and I
was all agog to go, and father was pleased, like ; but
mother said little, and that little was very quiet. I've
often thought she was a bit hurt to see me so ready to
go^God forgive me ! But she packed up my clothes,
and some o' the better end of her own as would fit me,
in yon litde paper box up there — ^it's good for naught
now, but I would Kefer live without fire than break it
up to be burnt; and yet it's going on for eighty years
old, for she had it when she was a girl, and l^rought all
her clothes in it to father's, when they were married.
But, as I was saying, she did not cry, though the tears
was often in her eyes; and I seen her looking after me
down the lane as long as I were in sight, with her hand
shading her eyes— and that were the last look I ever had
on her."

46 XART BABTON :

Alice knew that before long she slionld go to that
mother ; and, besides, the griefi and bitter woes of youth
have worn themselves out before we grow old; but she
looked so sorrowful that the girls caught her sadness,
and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead
and gone so many years ago.

" Did you never see her again, Alice? Did you never
go home while she was alive ?' asked Mary.

^' No, nor since. Many a time and oft have I planned
to go. I plan it yet, and hope to go home again before
it please God to take me. I used to try and save money
enough to go for a week when I was in service ; but
first one thing came, and then another. First, missis's
children fell ill of the measles^ just when th* week I'd
ask'd for came, and I couldn't leave them, for one and
all cried for me to nurse them. Then missis herself
fell sick, and I could go less than ever. For, you see,
they kept a little shop, and he drank, and missis and
me was all there was to mind children, and shop, and
all, and cook and wash besides.*^

Mary was glad she had not gone into service, andsaidso*

^^ Eh, lass I thou little knows the pleasure o' helping
others ; I was as happy there as could be ; almost as
happy as I was at home. Well^ but next year I thought
I could go at a leisure time, and missis telled me I
should have a fortnight then, and I used to sit up all
that winter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt
of my own making to take to my mother. But master
died, and missis went away &a Manchester, and Fd to
look out for a place again."

A TALE OF MANGHB8TEB LIFE. 47

^*Well, but," interrupted Mary, '«I should have
thought that was the best time to go home."

" No, I thought not. You see it was a different
thing going home for a week on a visit, may be with
money in my pocket to give father a lift, to going home
to be a burden to him. Besides, how could I hear o' a
place there. Anyways I thought it best to stay, though
perhaps it might have been better to ha' gone, for then
I should ha' seen mother again;" and the poor old
woman looked puzzled.

" I'm sure you did what you thought right," said
Margaret, gently.

** Ay, lass, that's it," said Alice, raising her head and
speaking more cheerfully. ** That's the thing, and then
let the Lord send what he sees fit; not but that I
grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, when toward spring next
year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining, George
came in one evening to tell me mother was dead. I
cried many a night at after* ; I'd no time for crying by
day, for that missis was terrible strict ; she would not
hearken to my going to the funeral ; and indeed I
would have been too late, for George set off that very
night by th' coach, and th' letter had been kept or
summut (posts were not like the posts now-a-days), and
he found the burial all over, and father talking o' flit-
ting ; for he could not abide the cottage after mother
was gone."

" Was it a pretty place ?* asked Mary.

" Pretty, lass ! I never seed such a bonny bit any-
* A common Loncasliire phrase.

4& MABT BABTON :

where. You see there are hiUs there as seem to go up

into the skies, not near may be, but that makes them

all the bonnier. I used to think they were the golden

hills of heaven, about which mj mother sang when I was

a child,

' Yon are the golden hills o* heaven.
Where ye sail never win.'

Something about a ship and a lover that should hae
been na lover, the ballad was. Well, and near our
cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses ! ye don't know what
rocka are in Manchester I Gray pieces o' stone as large
as a house, all covered over wi' moss of different colours,
some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath
them knee-deep in purple heather, smelling sae sweet
and fragrant, and the low music of the humming-bee
for ever sounding among it. Mother used to send
Sally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms,
and it was such pleasant work ! We used to come home
of an evening loaded so as you could not see us, for all
that it was so light to carry. And then mother would
make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where
we used to make our house among the great roots as
stood above the ground), to pick and tie up the heather.
It seems all like yesterday, and yet it's a long long time
agone. Poor sister Sally has been in her grave this
forty year and more. But I often wonder if the haw-
thorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather
heather, as we did many and many a year past and
gone. I sicken at heart to see the old spot once again.
May be next summer I may set off, if God spares me
to see next summer."

A TALS OF HAKCHX8TSB LIFE. 49

*' Why have you never been in all these many years ?*
asked Mary.

« Why, lass I first one wanted me and then another ;
and I could not go without money either, and I got
very poor at times. Tom was a scapegrace, poor fel-
low, and always wanted help of one kind or another;
and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married
long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body*
She were always ailing, and he were always in trouble;
so I had enough to do with my hands and my money
too, for that matter. They died within twelvemonth
of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but
the Lord had taken six to himself). Will, as I was tell-
ing you on; and I took him myself, and left service to
make a bit on a home-place for him, and a fine lad he
was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier.
For he was steady, although nought would serve him
but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a
sailor's life. Says I, ' Folks is as sick as dogs all the
time they're at sea. Your own mother telled me (for
she came from foreign parts, being a Manx woman)
that she'd ha thanked any one for throwing her into the
water.' Nay, I sent him a' the way to Runcorn by the
Duke's canal, that he might know what the sea were ;
and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet
wi' vomiting. But the lad went on to Liverpool and
saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on
being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been
sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty

VOL. I. E

50 XABT BABTOK :

well* So I telled Um he mun do as he liked; and he
thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very frabbit*
with him; and now he^s gone to Soutih America, at
t'other side of the son, they tell me."

Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she
thought of Alice's geography; but ifturgazet looked so
quiet and demure, that Mary was in doubt if she were
not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledge was
very profound, but she had seen a terrestial globe, and
knew where to find France and the continents on a
map.

After this Ibng talking Alice seemed lost for a time
in reverie; and the girls, respecting her thoughts, which
they suspected had wandered to the home and scenes of
her childhood, were silent. All at once she recalled
her duties as hostess, and by an eSRytt brought back her
mind to the present time*

*' Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I
don't know about fine music myself, but folks say Mar-
garet is a rare singer, and I know she can make me cry
at any time by singing * The Owdham Weaver.' Do
sing that, Margaret, there's a good lass."

With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of
a song, Margaret began.

Do you know " The Oldham Weaver ?' Not unless
you are Lancashire bom and bred, for it is a complete
Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for you.

♦ "FrabbiV* peevish.

A TALE OF XAK0HS8TEB LIFE. 51

THE OLDHAM WEAVES.

OPoi a poor ooMoopire jrer, m mon^ a odo laiioowi%
Ol^re nowt for f yent* sq oi'fe woon eawt my dooM,
ToM haidly gi' tappcnoe flir aw at oiVe on,
M7 dogs aie boath brotten, and itockiiit oi'?e none^

To'd think it wor hard.

To he hrowi mto th' warid.
To he— demmed,* an do ih* heat aa 70 ooil

n.
Owd Dicky o' Billy 'a kept tdliag me long.
Wee a'd ha' helter toimea if rd hot howd my tang,
d'ye howden my tang, till oi've near atopped my breath,
Oi think i* my heeart oi'ae aoon demto deeath,

Owd Dicky 'a wed crammed.

He neyer war clemmed,
An' he ne'er picked ower i' hia loifcf

m.
We tow'rt on aiz wedt— thinkhig aitdi day wur th' kat,
We diifted, an' ahifted, tiU neaw we're qnoite faat;
We liTed npo' netUea, wfaoile nettlea war good.
An' Waterloo porxidge the beat o' eawr food,

Oi'm tellin' yo' tnu^

Oi can find fdk enow,
Aa wnr liyin' na better nor me.

IV.

Owd Billy 0' Dana aent th' baikya one day.
For a shop deebt oi eawd him, aa oi could na pay.
But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy 0' th' Bent,
Had aowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en gooda ftar th' rent,

We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo*,

That wur seeats fur two.
An* on it ceawred Marget an' me.

* ^'dem," to atarre with hunger. ''Hard is the dioice, when
the valiant must eat their arms or clem/* — Ben Jonson,

t To ^'pidc ower," means to throw the ahatUe in liand-loom
weaviqg*

£2

52 liABT BABTON :

V.

Then t' baileys lenked leawnd as doy as a meavse.
When they seed as aw t' goods were ta*en eawt o* f heawse^
Saysonechaptoth'tother, ''AwB gone, theaw may see ;**
Says oi, ** Ne*er fireet, mon, yeanr welcome ta' me."

They made no moor ado

But whopped up th* eawd stoo',
An' we booath leet, whack— upo* t' flags I

▼I.
Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo* t' floor,
« We*8 never be lower i' this warld, oi'm sure,
If ever things awtem, oi*m sure th^ mun mend.
For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' fax eend ;

For meeat we ha' none ;

Nor looms t' weyve on, —
Edad ! th^re as good lost as fund."

vn.
Eawr Marget declares had hoo doo'as to put on,
Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon ;
An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,
Hoo's Ailly resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend ;

Hoo*s neawt to say again t' king,

But hoo loikes a fair thing.
An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.

The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning
recitative^ depending much on expression and feeling.
To read it, it may, perhaps, seem humorous ; but it is
that humour which is near akin to pathos, and to those
who have seen the distress it describes, it is a power-
fully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the
destitution, and had the heart to feel it ; and withal,
her voice was of that rich and rare order, which does
not require any great compass of notes to make itself
appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoyment of tears.

A TALE OF UANOHESTBB LIFE. 53

Bat Margaret, "with fixed eye, and eamesty dreamy,
look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in
lealiffing to herself the woe she had been describing,
and which she felt might at that very moment be suf-
fering and hopeless within a short distance of their
comparative comfort*

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her
magnificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart
for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication,
" Lord remember David." Mary held her breath, un-
willing to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so im-
ploring. A far more correct musician than Mary
might have paused with equal admiration of the really
scientific knowledge, with which the poor depressed-
looking young needle-woman used her superb and
flexile voice. Deborah Travers hei:self (once an Old-
ham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashion-
able crowds as Mrs. Eiiyvett), might have owned a
aster in her art.

She stopped ; and with tears of holy sympathy in
her eyes, Alice thanked the songstress, who resumed
her calm, demure manner, much to Mary's wonder, for
she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised that the
hidden power should not be perceived in the outward
appearance.

When Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there
was quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather qua-
vering, male voice, going over again one or two strains
of Margaret's song.

*' That's grandfather!" excldmed she. ''I must be

54 MABT barton:

going, for he said he ahould not be at home till past
nine.**

" Well, m not say nay, for Fve to be up by four
for a very heavy wash at Mrs. Simpson's ; but I shall
be terrible glad to see you again at any time, lasses ;
and I hope you'll take to one another.**

As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Mar-
garet said: **Just step in, and see grandfather. I
should like him to see you."

And Mary consented.

A TALE OF MANCHX8TXB LIFE. 56

CHAPTER V.

Leaned he was ; nor bird, nor insect flew,

Bat he its leafy home and histeij knew;

Nor wiU-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well.

But he its name and qualities oonld telL

Elliott.

There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown
even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence
will piobaUy be doubted by many, who yet may daim
Idndied with all the noble names that science lecognises.
I add *^ in Manchester," but they axe scattered all over
the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the
neighbourhood of Oldham thete are weavers, common
hand4oom weavers, who throw the shuttle with un-
ceasing sound, though Newton's <* Prindpia" lie open on
the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled
over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical problems
are received with interest, and studied with absorbing
attention by many a broad-spoken, common-looking,
fictoxy-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more
popularly interesting branches of natural history have
their warm and devoted followers among this class. There

S6 HABY BABT02C :

are botanists among them, equally familiar with either
the Linnsean or the Natural system^ who know the name
and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their
dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when
any particular plantshould be in flower, and tying up their
simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with
single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed.
There are entomologists, who may be seen with a
rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect,
or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and
slimy pools ; practical, shrewd, hard-working men,
who pore over every new specimen with real scientific
delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious divi-
sions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these
earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be
owing to the great annual to wn-holidayof Whitsun-week
so often Mling in May or June that the two great, beau-
tiful families of Ephemerida^ and Phryganidas have
been so much and so closely studied by Manchester
workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped
general observation. If you will refer to the preface
to Sir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or I
would copy you the exact passage), you will find that
he names a little circumstance corroborative of what I
have said. Sir J. E. Smith, being on a visit to Koscoe,
of Liverpool, made some inquiries from him as to the
habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in cer«
tain places in Lancashire. Mr. Koscoe knew nothing of
the plant ; but stated, that if any one could give him the
desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 67

Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith pro*
ceeded by coach to Manchester, and on arriving at that
town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his
luggage if he could direct him to So and So^

'^ Oh, yes," replied the man. *' He does a bit in my
way ;" and, on further investigation, it turned out^ that
both the porter, and his friend the weaver, were skilful
botanists, and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the very
information which he wanted.

Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the
thoughtful, little imderstood, working men of Man-*
Chester.

And Margaret's grand£ather was one of these. He
was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a
jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string
like a child's toy, with dun coloured hair lying thin
and soft at the back and sides of his head ; his fore-
head was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest
of his face, which had indeed lost its natural contour
by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely
gleamed with intelligence ; so keen, so observant, you
felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the
whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling.
Instead of pictures, were hung rude wooden frames of
impaled insects ; the little table was covered with caba-
listic books; and a case of mysterious instruments lay
bende, one of which Job Legh was using when hiQ
grand-daughter entered.

On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as
to zest midway on his forehead, and gave Mary a shorty

58 ICABT BABTOH :

kind welcome. But Mai^gaiet he caxesBed as a mother
caresses her fiist-bom ; atrokiiig her with tendemeas,
and aknost altering hb voice as he spoke to her.

Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she
had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to
have a very uncanny look.

*^ Is your grandfather a fortune-teller ?" whispered
she to her new friend.

** No," replied Margaret, in the same voice ; " but
you're not the first as has taken him for such. He is
only fond of such things as most folks know nothing
about.*'

** And do you know aught about them, too ?**

^* I know a bit about some of the things grandfather
28 fond on ; just because he is fond on 'em I tried to
learn about them."

^' What things are these 7" said Mary, struck with
the weird-looking creatures that sprawled around the
room in their roughly-made glass cases.

But she was not prepared for the technical names
which Job Legh pattered down on her ear, on which
they fell like hail on a skylight; and the strange Ian*
guage only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret
saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue.

*' Look, Maiy, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me
such a fright : I'm all of a twitter yet when I think of
it. Grrandfather went to Liverpool one Whitsun-week
to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he
could from the sailors, who often bring some queer
thing or another from the hot countries they go to ;

A TALE OF KANCHB8TBB LIFE. 69

and so he sees a chap with a botde in his hand, like a
druggist's phynobottle ; and says gzandfather, * What
have ye gotten there ? So the sailor holds it up, and
giand£sither knew it was a rare kind o* scorpion,
not common even in ihe East Indies where the man
came from ; and says he, * How did ye catdi this fine
fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing I'm think-
ing ?' And the man said as how when they w^e un«
loading the ship he'd found him Ijring behind a bag of #
rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was
not squashed nor injured a bit. He did not like to part
with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the scorpion
in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were
folks enow who would give him something for him.
So grandfather gives him a shilling."

" Two shilling," interrupted Job Legh, " and a
good bargain it was."

*' Well ! grandfather came home as proud as Punch,
and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. But you see
th' scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought
I couldn't fairly see how big he was. So he shakes him
out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was,
for I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing, and
stooped down over him, to look at him better, and
grandfather got a book, and began to read how this
very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species,
how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to
read how people who were bitten got swelled, and
screamed with pidn. I was listening hard, but as it

60 ;Bf ABT BABTON :

fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature, though
I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenly it
seemed to give a jerk^ and before I could speak, it gave
another, and in a minute it was as wild as could be,
running at me just like a mad dog."

** What did you do ?" asked Mary.

" Me I why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all
the things Fd been ironing on the dresser, and I
screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did*
not hearken to me."

" Why, if rd come up by thee, who'd ha* caught the
creature, I should like to know ?"

" Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had
the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grand'
fiither begged me not to hurt it in that way* So I
couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped round
the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged
me not to injure it. At last he goes to th' kettle, and
lifts up the lid, and peeps in. What on earth is he
doing that for, thinks I ; he'll never drink his tea
with a scorpion running free and easy about the room.
Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles
on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature
up by th' leg, and dropped him into the boiling water."

** And did that kiU him ?" said Mary.

" Ay, sure enough ; he boiled for longer time than
grandfather liked though. But I was so afeard of his
coming round again, I ran to the public-house for
some gin, and grand&ther filled the bottle, and then

A TALE OF HANCHE8TEB LIFE. 61

we poured off the water, and picked him out of the
kettle, and dropped him into the bottle, and he were
ihere above a twelvemonth."

« What brought him to Kfe at first ?" asked Mary.

" Why, you see, he were never really dead, only
torpid — ^that is, dead asleep. with the cold, and our
good fire brought him round."

"I'm glad father does not care for such things/*
said Mary.

" Are you ! Well, Pm often downright glad grand-
father is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his
plants. It does my heart good to see him so happy,
sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search
of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him
now! he's gone back to his books, and hell be as
happy as a Hng, working away till I make him go to
bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure ; but so long as I
see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that
matter ? Then, when he has his talking bouts, you
can't think how much he has to say. Dear grand-
&ther ! you don't know how happy we are 1"

Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this,
for Margaret did not speak in an under tone; but no!
he was far too deep and eager in solving a problem. He
did not even notice Mary's leave-taking, and she went
home with the feeling that she had that night made
the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever
saw in her Kfe. Margaret, so quiet, so common place,
until her singing powers were called forth ; so silent from
home, so cheerful and agreeable at home ; and her grand-"

62 mabybabtoh:

fisiiher 80 yerj different to any one Maiy had ever seen.
Margaret had said he was not a fartime-teUer, but she
did not know whether to believe her.

To resolve her doubts, she told the histoxj of the
evening to her father, who was interested by her ac-
county and curious to see and judge for himselfl Oppor*
tunities are not often wanting where inclination goes
before, and before the end of that winter Mary looked
upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would
bring her work when Mary was likely to be at home in
the evenings and sit with her ; and Job Legh would put'
a book and his pipe in his pocket and just step round
the corner to fetch his grand-child, ready for a talk if
he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if
the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at his
club. In short, ready to do whatever would give plea-
sure to his darling Margaret.

I do not know what points of resemblance (or diss!*
militude, for the one joins people as often as the other)
attracted the two girls to each other. Margaret had the
great charm of possessing good strong common sense,
and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is valued ?
It so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power
of setting a difficult question in a clear light ; whose
judgment can tell what is best to be done; and who is
so convinced of what is " wisest, best,*' that in conside-
ration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminish.
People admire talent, and talk about their admiration.
But they value common sense without talking about it,
and often without knowing it.

A TALE or KANCHBSTXB LIFE. 83

So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the
other ; and Mary told many of her feelings in a way
ahe had never done before to any one. Meet of her
foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not alL
There was one cherished weakness still concealed from
erery one. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but fa-
voured by fancy. A gallant, handsome young man ;
but — ^not beloved. Tet Mary hoped to meet him every
day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and
tried to think of him as her fixture husband, and above
ally tried to think of herself as his future wife. Alas!
poor Mary I Bitter woe did thy weakness work ihee.

She had other lovers. One or two would gladly
have kept her oompai^y, but she held herself too high,
they said. Jem Wilson said nothing, but loved on and
on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he
would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to
give up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to
any end of all this ; the present, so that he saw her,
touched the hem of her garment, was enough. Surely,
in time, such deep love would beget love.

He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness
of manner was enough to daunt any man ; and it made
Jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a
long time even to himself.

But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a
willing messenger for his &ther, and opening the door
saw Margaret sitting asleep before the fire. She had
come in to speak to Mary; and worn out by a long

64 HABT BABTON :

TTorking, watcliing night, she fell adeep in the genial
wsmnth.

An old-fjEushioned saying about a pair of gloves' came
into Jem's mind, and stepping gently up he kissed
Margaret with a friendly kiss.

She awoke, and perfectly understanding the things
she said, *' For shame of yourself, Jem. What would
Mary say?'

Lightly said, lightly answered.

'* She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." And
they both laughed. But the words Margaret had said
rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary care? Would
she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an
answer by night, and by day; and Jem felt that his
heart told him Mary was quite indifierent to any action
of his. Still he loved on, and on, ever more fondly.

IVfary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem
Wilson's feelings for his daughter, but he took no notice
of them to any one, thinking Mary full young yet for
the cares of married life, and unwilling, too, to entertain
the idea of parting with her at any time, however
distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he
would have done his father's son, whatever were his
motives for coming; and now and then admitted the
thought, that Mary might do worse when her time
came, than marry Jem Wibon, a steady workman at a
good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly
spirited chap — at least when Mary was not by : for
when she was present he watched her too closely, and

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 65

too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called
"spunk" in him.

It was towards the end of February, in that year,
and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks.
The keen east wind had long since swept the streets
clean, though on a gusty day the dust would rise like
pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart
with the cold force with which it blew against them.
Houses, sky, people, and every thing looked as if a
gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark
shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this
grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there
might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft
water had become an article not even to be purchased ;
and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying
to procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that
coated the ditches and ^onds in the neighbourhood.
People prophesied a long continuance to this already
lengthened frost ; said the spring would be very late ;
no spring fashions required ; no summer clothing piur-
chased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed there was
no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance
of that bleak east wind.

Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was
fading, from Miss Simmonds', with her shawl held up to
her mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of
the meeting wind. So she did not perceive Margaret
till die was dose upon her at the very turning into the
court.

VOL. I. F

66 MABT BABTON :

" Bless me, Margaret ! is that you ? Where are you
bound to ?"

" To nowhere but your own house (that is, if youll
take me in). IVe a job of work to finish to-night ;
mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow;
a^d grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and will
not be home till late."

^* Oh, how charming it will be. Ill help you if
you're backward. Have you much to do?"

'* Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon ; and
there's three girls beside the mother ; and what with
trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not
enough in the piece they chose first), I'm above a bit be-
hindhand. I've the skirts all to make, I kept that work
till candlelight ; and the deeves, to say nothing of little
bits to the bodies ; for the missis is veiy particular, and
I could scarce keep from smiling while they were
crying so, really taking on sadly I'm sure, to hear first
one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit of her
goym. They weren't to be misfits I promise you, though
they were in such trouble."

" Well, Margaret, you're right welcome as you know,
and I'll sit down and help you with pleasure, though
I was tired enough of sewing to-night at Miss Sim-
monds'."

By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal,
and lighted her candle ; and Margaret settled herself
to her work on one side of the table, while her friend
hurried over her tea at the other. The things were

A TALE OF IfAKCHESTEB LIFE. 67

then lifted en masse to the dresser ; and dusting her side
of the table -with the apron she always wore at home,
Mary took up some breadths and began to run them
together.

" Who's it all for, for if you told me IVe forgotten ?*

** Why for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's
shop in Oxford Road. Her husband drank himself to
death, and though she cried over him and his ways all
the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now
he's dead."

" Has he left her much to go upon ?" asked Mary,
examining the texture of the dress. " This is beauti-
ftdly fine soft bombazine."

*^ No, I'm much afeared there's but little, and there's
several young children, besides the three Miss Ogdens."

" I should have thought girls like them would ha'
made their own gowns," observed Mary.

" So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they
seem all so busy getting ready for the funeral ; for it's
to be quite a grand affair, well-nigh twenty people to
breakfast, as one of the little ones told me ; the little
thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it com-
forted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work.
Such a smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I
waited in the kitchen ; it seemed more like a wedding
nor* a funeral. They said she'd spend a matter o' sixty
pound on th' burial."

♦ "Nor," generally used in Lancashire for " than."

" They had leyer sleep nor be in lanndery."— 2>Mn6ar.
f2

68 HABT babtok:

'* I thought you said she was but badly ofl^" said
Mary.

'' Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places,
saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he
could get for drink. But th' undertakers urge her oa
you see, and tell her this thing's usual, and that thing's
only a common mark of respect, and that every body has
t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her
own. I dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always
does when a person's gone) for many a word and many
a slighting deed to him, who's stiff and cold ; and she
thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand
funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have
to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they
pay them at all."

" This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said
Mary. *' I often wonder why folks wear mourning ;
it's not pretty or becoming ; and it costs a deal of money
just when people can spare it least ; and if what the
Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a
friend, who's been good, goes to his rest ; and as for a
bad man, one's glad enough to get shut* on him. I
cannot see what good comes out o' wearing moum-
ing.

" I'll tell you what I think th* fancy was sent for
(Old Alice calb every thing ' sent for,' and I believe
she's right). It does do good, though not as much as
it costs, that I do believe, in setting people (as is cast

•"Shut," quit.

A TALE OF HAKCHESTEB LIFE. 69

down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to
any thing but crying) something to do. Why now I
told you how they were grieving ; for, perhaps, he was
a kind husband and father, in his thoughtless way,
when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up won-
derful while I was there, and 1 asked 'em for more
directions than usual, that they might have some-
thing to talk over and fix about ; and I left 'em my
feshion-book (though it were two months' old) just a
purpose."

" I don't think every one would grieve a that way.
Old AUce wouldn't."

" Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too,
if she would fret much, however sorry she might be.
She would say it were sent, and fall to trying to find
out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in her
mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary,
what she said one day when she found me taking on
about something."

" No, do tell me. What were you fretting about,
first place ?"

•' I can't tell you just now ; perhaps I may some-
time."

" When ?"

** Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart ;
perhaps never. It's a fear that sometimes I can't abide
to think about, and sometimes I don't like to think on
any thing else. Well, I was fretting about this fear,
and Alice comes in for something, and finds me crying.
I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary ;

70 MARY BABTON:

SO she says, ' Well, dear, you must mind tliis, when
you're going to fret and be low about any thing, * An
anxious mind is never a holy mind.' Oh, Maiy, I
have so often checked my grumbling sin'* she said that."

The weary sound of stitching was the only sound
heard for a little while, till Mary inquired,

" Do you expect to get paid for this mourning ?"

" Why I do not much think I shalL Pve thought
it over once or twice, and I mean to bring myself to
think I shan't, and to like to do it as my bit towards
comforting them. I don't think they can pay, and yet
they're just the sort of folk to haye their minds easier
for wearing mourning. There's only one thing I dis-
like making black for, it does so hurt the eyes."

Maigaret put down her work with a sigh, and
shaded her eyes. Then she assumed a cheerful tone,
and said,

" You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's
on the tip of my tongue. Mary ! do you know I some-
times think I'm growing a little blind, and then what
would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help
me. Lord help me !"

She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by
her, striving to soothe and to comfort her ; but, like an
inexperienced person, striving rather to deny the cor-
rectness of Margarpt^s fear, than helping her to meet
and overcome the evil.

" No," said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes

• « Sin', " since.

*' Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age."

Prologue to Canterbury Tales*

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 71

on Mary; ^^I know I'm not mistaken. I have fdt
one going some time, long before I ever thought what
it woald lead to ; and last autumn I went to a doctor ;
and he did not mince the matter^ but said unless I sat
in a darkened room, with my hands before me, my
sight would not last me many years longer. But how
could I do that, Mary ? For one thing, grandfather
would have known there was somewhat the matter ;
and, oh! it will grieve him sore whenever he's told,
so the later the better ; and besides, Mary, we've some-
times little enough to go upon, and what I earn is a
great help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a
day there, for botanising or going after insects, and
he'll think Uttle enough of four or five shillings for a
specimen ; dear grandfather ! and I'm so loath to think
he should' be stinted of what gives him such pleasure.
So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say
something different, and he said, ' Oh, it was only weak-
ness,' and gived me a bottle of lotion ; but Pve used
three bottles (and each of 'em cost two shillings), and
my eye is so much worse, not hurting so much, but I
can't see a bit with it. There now, Mary," continued
she, shutting one eye, '* now you only look like a great
black shadow, with the edges dancing and sparkling."
" And can you see pretty well with th' other ?"
" Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th' only dif-
ference is, that if I sew a long time together, a bright
spot like th'. sun comes right where I'm looking ; all
the rest is quite clear but just where I want to see.
Pve been to both doctors again, and now they're both

72 MABT babton:

o' the same story ; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast
as may be. Plain work pays so bad, and mourning
has been so plentiful this winter, I were tempted to
take in any black work I could ; and now Pm. suffering
from it."

" And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in ;
that's what you'd call foolish in another."

*' It is Mary ! and yet what can 1 do ? Folk mun
live ; and I think I should go blind any way, and I
dam't tell grandfather, else I would leave it off, but he
will so fret."

Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to
still her emotion.

*' Oh Mary !" she said, " I try to get his face off by
heart, and I stare at him so when he's not looking, and
then shut my eyes to see if I can remember his dear
face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a bit to com-
fort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth,
the singing weaver ? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I
went to him, and said how I wished he'd teach me the
right way o' singing; and he says I've a rare fine voice?
and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra' him. He's
been a grand singer in his day. He's led th' chorusses
at the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by Lon-
don folk ; and one foreign singer, Madame Catalan!,
turned round and shook him by th' hand before the
Oud Church* full o' people. He says I may gain ever so
much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate
it's sad work, being blind."

* ** Old Church;" now the Cathedral of Manchester.

A TALE or MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 73

She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested
BOW, and for some time they sewed on in silence.

.Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved
court ; person after person ran past the curtained
window.

" Something's up," said Maiy, She went to the door
and stopping the first person she saw, inquired the
cause of the commotion.

" Eh wench I donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons'
mill is blazing away like fun ;" and away her informant
ran.

" Come, Margaret, on wi* your bonnet, and let's go
to see Carsons' mill; it's afire, and they say a burning
mill is such a grand sight. I never saw one."

" Well, I think it's a fearful sight. Besides I've all
this work to do."

But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her
gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all
night long if necessary, nay, saying she should quite
enjoy it.

The truth was, Margaret's secret weighed heavily
and painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to
comfort; besides, she wanted to change the current of
Margaret's thoughts ; and in addition to these unselfish
feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of
seeing a factory on fire.

So in two minutes they were ready. At the thresh-
old of the house they met John Barton, to whom they
told their errand.

" Carsons' mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire some-

74 HABT BABTON:

where, suie enough, by the light, and it will be a rare
blaze, for there's not a drop o' water to be got. And
much Carsons will care, for they're well insured, and
the machines are a' th' oud-&shioned kind. See if they
don't think it a fine thing for themselves. They'll not
thank them as tries to put it out."

He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided
by the ruddy light more than by any exact knowledge
of the streets that led to the mill, they scampered along
with bent heads, facing the terrible east wind as best
they might.

Carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along
it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester,
Indeed all that part of the town was comparatively old;
it was there that the first cotton mills were built, and
the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbour-
hood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The
staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the
western end, which faced into a wide dingy-looking
street, consisting principally of public-houses, pawn-
brokers' shops, rag and bone warehouses, and dirty pro-
vision shops. The other, the east end of the &ctory,
fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet
wide, and miserably lighted and paved. Right against
this end of the factory were the gable ends of the last
house in the principal street — ^a house which from its
size, its handsome stone facings, and the attempt at
ornament in the front, had probably been once a gen-
tleman's house; but now the light which streamed from
its enlarged front windows, made clear the interior of

A TALE OF XANCHESTEB LIPS. 75

the splendidly fitted up room, Tnth its painted walls, its
pillared recesses, its gilded and gorgeous fittings up, its
miserable, squalid inmates. It was a gin palace.

Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Mar«
gaiet had said) was the sight when they joined the
crowd assembled to witness the fire. There was a
murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the
flames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive
the mass were deeply interested.

" What do they say ?" asked Margaret, of a neigh-
bour in the crowd, as she caught a few words, clear and
distinct, fix)m the general murmur.

" There never is any one in the mill, surely T' ex-
claimed Mary, as the sea of upward-turned faces moved
with one accord to the eastern end, looking into Dun-
ham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.

The western end of the mill, whither the raging
flames were driven by the wind, was crowned and tur-
leted with triumphant fire. It sent forth its infernal
tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls
with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the
mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage
and roar yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with
an astounding crash, while the crowd struggled more and
more to press into Dunham Street, for what were magni-
ficent terrible flames, what were falling timbers or tot-
tering walls, in comparison with human life ?

There, where the devouring flames had been repelled
by the yet more powerful wind, but where yet black
smoke gushed out firom every aperture, there, at one of

76 MARTBAETON:

the windows on the fourth story, or rather a doorway
where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods^ might occa-
sionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared
partially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two
men. They had remained after the rest of the workmen
for some reason or other, and, owing to the wind having
driven the fire in the opposite direction, had perceived no
sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if any thing
could be called long in that throng of terrors which
passed by in less time than half an hour) the fire had
consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of
the building. I am not sure whether it was not the
first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them
fully aware of their awful position.

" Where are the engines ?" asked Margaret of her
neighbour.

" They're coming, no doubt; but, bless you, I think
it's bare ten minutes since we first found out th' fire; it
rages so wi' this wind, and all so dry-like."

** Is no one gone for a ladder ?" gasped Mary, as the
men were perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the
great multitude below for help.

" Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a
shot, well nigh five minute agone. But th' masons,
and slaters, and such like, have left their work, and
locked up the yards."

Wilson ! then, was that man whose figure loomed out
against the ever increasing dull hot light behind, when-
ever the smoke was clear, — was that George Wilson ?
Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 77

Carsons; but at first she had had no idea any lives
were in danger; and since she was aware of this, the
heated air, the roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the
agitated and murmuring crowd, had bewildered her
thoughts.

" Oh ! let us go home, Margaret, I cannot stay."

" We cannot go 1 See how we are wedged in by
folks. Poor Mary ! ye won't hanker after a fire again.
Hark! listen!"

For through the hushed crowd, pressing round the
angle of the mill, and filling up Dunham Street, might
be heard the rattle of the engine, the heavy, quick tread
of loaded horses.

" Thank God !" said Margaret's neighbour, " the
engine's come."

Another pause ; the plugs were stiff*, and water could
not be got.

Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front
rows bearing back on those behind, till the girls were
sick with the close ramming confinement. Then a re-
laxation, and a breathing freely once more.

" 'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder/'
said Margaret's neighbour, a tall man who could over-
look the crowd.

" Oh, tell us what you see?" begged Mary.

" They've gotten it fixed again the gin-shop wall.
One o' the men i' th' factory has fell back ; dazed wi*
the smoke, I'll warrant. The floor's not given way
there. God !" said he, bringing his eye lower down,
" th' ladder's too short ! Its a' over wi' them, poor

78 liABT BABTOK:

chaps. TV fire's coming slow and sure to that end,
and afore they've either gotten water, or another ladder,
they'll be dead out and out. Lord have mercy on
them !"

A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush
of the crowd. Another pressure like the former!
Mary clung to Margaret's arm with a pinching grasp,
and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape &om
the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or
two.

"They've taken th' ladder into th' Temple of
Apollor. Can't press back with it to thfe yard it came
from."

A mighty shout arose ; a sound to wake the dead.
Up on high, quivering in the air, was seen the end of
the ladder, protruding out of a garret window, in the
gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to the door-
way where the men had been seen. Those in the
crowd nearest the factory, and consequently best able
to see up to the garret window, said that several men
were holding one end, and guiding by their weight its
passage to the door-way. The garret window-frame
had been taken out before the crowd below were aware
of the attempt.

At length — ^for it seemed long, measured by beating
hearts, though scarce two minutes had elapsed — ^the
ladder was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzy height,
across the, narrow street.

Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and
people's very breathing seemed stilled in suspense. The

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 79

men were nowhere to be seen, but the wind appeared,
for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the
invading flames to the other end.

Mary and Margaret could see now ; right above
them danced the ladder in the wind. The crowd
pressed back from wider ; firemen's helmets appeared
at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man,
with quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed
from one side to the other. The multitude did not
even whisper while he crossed the perilous bridge,
which quivered under him ; but when he was across,
safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an
instant, checked, however, almost immediately, by the
uncertainty of the result, and the desire not in any way
to shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast
his life on such a die.

*' There he is again !" sprung to the lips of many, as
they saw him at the doorway, standing as if for an
instant to breathe a mouthful of the fresher air, before he
trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders he bore an
insensible body.

" It's Jem Wilson and his father," whispered Mar-
garet ; but Mary knew it before.

The people were sick with anxious terror. He could
no longer balance himself with his arms ; every thing
must depend on nerve and eye. They saw the latter
was fixed, by the position of the head, which never
wavered ; the ladder shook under the double weight ;
but still he never moved his head — ^he dared not look
below. It seemed an age before the crossing was ac«

80 HABY baeton:

complished. At last the window was gained ; the
bearer relieved from his burden ; both had disappeared.
Then the multitude might shout ; and above the
roaring flames, louder than the blowing of the mighty
wind, arose that tremendous burst of applause at the
success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry
was heard, asking

" Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?"
" Ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed
crowd below. ** He's coming round finely, now he's
had a dash of cowd water."

He drew back his head ; and the eager inquiries, the
shouts, the sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling
mass began again to be heard — but for an instant
though. In far less time than even that in which I
have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events,
the same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder,
with evident purpose to rescue the man yet remaining
in the burning mill.

He went across in the same quick steady manner as
before, and the people below, made less acutely anxious
by his previous success, were talking to each other,
shouting out intelligence of the progress of the fire at
the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours
of the firemen at that part to obtain water, While the
closely packed body of men heaved and rolled from
side to side. It was different from the former silent
breathless hush. I do not know if it were from this
cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that he
looked beloW) in the breathing moment before ire-

A TALE OF MAKCHE8TEB LIFE. 81

taming -with the remaining person (a slight little man),
dung across his shoulders, but Jem Wilson's step was
less steady^ his tread more uncertain; he seemed to feel
"with his foot for the next round of the ladder^ to waver,
and finally to stop half-way. By this time the crowd
was still enough; in the awful instant that intervened
no one durst speak, even to encourage. Many turned
sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid seeing the
catastrophe they dreaded. It came. The brave man
swayed from side to side^ at first as slightly as if only
balancing himself; but he was evidently losing nerve,
and even sense: it was only wonderful how the animal
instinct of self-preservation did not overcome every
generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the help-
less, inanimate body he carried ; perhaps the same instinct
told him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight
would of itself be a great and imminent danger.

" Help me ! she's fidnted," cried Margaret. But no
one heeded. All eyes were directed upwards. At
this point of time a rope, with a running noose, was
dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the
manner of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies
of the two men. True, it was with rude and slight ad-
justment: but, slight as it was, it served as a steadying
guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the dizzy head.
Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried
by any jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope
was hauled in, 8low:ly and gradually did he make the
four or five paces between him and safety. The window
was gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the

VOL. I. G

82 MABT BABTOK:

street absolutely danced with tnumph, and huzzaed and
yelled till you would have &ncied their very throats
would crack ; and tiien with all the ficU^iess of interest
characteristic of a large body of people, pressed and
stumbled, and cursed and swore in the hurry to get out
of Dunham Street, and back to the immediate scene of
the fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames
formed an awful accompaniment to the screams, and yells,
and imprecations, of the struggling crowd.

As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and
almost sinking under the weight of Mary's body,
which she had preserved in an upright position by
keeping her arms tight roimd Mary's waist, dreading^
with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet.

Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold
clean pavement ; and the change of posture, and the
difierence in temperature, now that the people had with-
drawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily restored
her to consciousness.

Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She
had forgotten where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt
strange ; the murky glare in the sky affiighted her.
She shut hei; eyes to think, to recollect.

Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had
been withdrawn; the window was unoccupied.

*' They are safe," said Margaret.

" All ? Are all safe, Margaret ?' asked Mary.

'* Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it
than I can. But I know they're all safe."

The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words.

A TALE OF MAirCHESTEB LIFE. 83

" Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice ?' asked
Margaret.

*^ Let ! — yvhj we could not hinder him. As soon as
ever he'd heard his father speak (which he was na long
a doing), Jem were off like a shot; only saying he
knowed better nor us where to find t'other man. We'd
all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no
one can say as Manchester firemen is ever backward
when there's danger.''

So saying, heran off; and the two girls, without remark
or discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken
by the elder Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but
apparently as strong and well as ever. He loitered a
minute or two alongside of them, giving an account of
his detention in the null; he then hastily wished good-
night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he
was all safe and well : but after he had gone a few
steps, he turned back, came on Mary's side of the
pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which Margaret
could not avoid hearing, he said,

" Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give
him a kind word or two for my sake. Do ! bless you,
there's a good wench."

Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and
in an instant he was gone.

When they arrived at home, they found John Barton
smoking his pipe, unwilling to question, yet very will-
ing to hear all the details they could give him. Mar-
garet went over the whole story, and it was amusing to
watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement.

g2

84 mabybabton:

First, the regular puflSng abated, then ceased. Then
the pipe was fairly taken out of his mouth, and held
suspended. Then he rose, and at every further point
he came a step nearer to the narrator.

When it was ended, he swore (an unusual thing for
him) that if Jem Wilson wanted Mary he should have
her to-morrow, if he had not a penny to keep her.

Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now re-
covered from her agitation, pouted, and looked angry.

The work which they had left was resumed : but
with full hearts, fingers never go very quickly ; and
I am sorry to say, that owing to the fire, the two
younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the loss of
their excellent father, that they were unable to appear
before the little circle of sympathising friends gathered
together to comfort the widow, and see the funeral
setoff.

A TALE OP MAKCHE8TEB LITE. 85

CHAPTER VL

'.' How little can the rich man know
Of what the poor man feels.
When Want, like some dark cUemon foe,
Neaier and nearer steals !

He never tramp*d the weary round,

A stroke of work to gain.
And sickened at the drea.ded soxmd

Telling him 'twas in yain.

Foot-sore, heart-sore, he never came

Back through the winter's wind.
To a dark cellar, there no flame.

No Ught, no food, to find.

He never saw his darlings lie

Shivering, the grass their hed ;
He never heard that maddening cry,

* Daddy, a bid of bread I* "

Manchester Song.

John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that
the Messrs. Carson would not be over much grieved for
the consequences of the fire in their mill.. They were
well insured ; the machinery lacked the improvements
of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison
with that which might now be procured. Above all,

86 MABY BABTON:

trade was very slack ; cottons could find no market,
and goods lay packed and piled in many a warehouse.
The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery,
human and metal^ in some kind of order and readiness for
better times. So this was an excellent time, Messrs.
Carson thought, for refitting their factory with first-
rate improvements, for which the insurance money
would amply pay. They were in no hurry about the
business, however. The weekly drain of wages given
for labour, useless in the present state of the market,
was stopped. The partners had more leisure than they
had known for years ; and promised wives and daughters
all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the weather
should become mox^ geniaL It was a pleasant thing to
be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or news-
paper in hand ; to have time for becoming acquainted
with agreeable and accomplished daughters, on whose
education no money had been spared, but whose fathers,
shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts,
had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters'
talents. There were happy family evenings, now that
the men of business had time for domestic enjoyments.
There is another side to the picture. There were homes
over which Carsons' fire threw a deep, terrible gloom ;
the homes of those who would fain work, and no man
gave unto them — ^tbe homes of those to whom leisare
was a curse. There, the family music was hungry
wails, when week after week passed by, and there was
no work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay
for the bread the children cried aloud for in their young

A TALE OF UAKCHE8TER LIFE. 87

impatienoe of suffering. There was no breakfast to
loimge over ; their lounge was taken in bed, to try
and keep warmth in them that bitter March weather,
and^ by being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within.
Many a penny that would have gone little way enough
in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry
little ones, and make them forget their uneasiness in
heavy troubled sleep. It was mother's mercy. The
evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then.
There were desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued
mothers (O God! what wonder!); there were reckless
dnldren ; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt
in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith such
as the rich can never imagine on earth ; there was
** Love strong as death ;" and self-denial, among rude,
eoarse men, akin to that of Sir Philip Sidney^s most
glorious deed. The vices of the poor sometimes astound
us here; but when the secrets of all hearts shall be
made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater
degree. Of this I am certain.

As-the cold bleak spring came on (spring, in name
alone), and consequently as trade continued dead, other
mills shortened hours, turned off hands, and finally
stopped work altogether.

Barton worked short hours; Wilson, of course, being
a hand in Carsons' factory, had no work at all But
his son, working at an engineer's, and a steady man,
obtained wages enough to maintain all the £sLmily in a
careful way. Still it preyed on Wilson's mind to be so
long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits and

88 MAET BAETON:

depressed. Barton was morose, and soured towards
mankind as a body, and the rich in particular. One
evening, when the clear light at six o'clock contrasted
strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the bitter
wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny.
Barton sat brooding over his stinted fire, and listenings
for Mary's step, in unacknowledged trust that her pre-
sence would cheer him. The door was opened, and
Wilson came breathless in.

" You've not got a bit o* money by you. Barton?'*
asked he.

'* Not I ; who has now, I'd like to know. Whatteik
you want it for ?"

**I donnot* want it for mysel, tho' we've none to
spare. But don ye know Ben Davenport as worked at
Carsons'? He's down wP the fever, and ne'er a stick.
o' fire, nor a cowdf potato in the house."

" I han got no money, I tell ye," said Barton.-
Wilson looked disappointed. Barton tried not to be
interested, but he could not help it in spite of his gruflP-
ness. He rose, and went to the cupboard (his wife's
pride long ago). There lay the remains of his dinner,,
hastily put there ready for supper. Bread, and a slice
of cold fat boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his
handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, and
said — " Come, let's be going."

• "Don" is constantly used in Lancashire for " do ;" as it was by
our older writers. " And that may non Hors dan." — Sir J, Mande-J
viUe.

" But for th' entent to don this sinne.'* — Chaucer,

+ ** Cowd/' cold. Teut., kaud. Dutch, koud.

A TALE OF HANGHESTEB LIFE. 89

** Going — art thou going to work this time o' day ?*'
" No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the fellow
thou spoke on." So they put on their hats and set out.
On the way Wilson said Davenport was a good fellow,
though too much of the Methodee ; that his children
were too young to work, but not too young to be cold
and hungry ; that they had sunk lower and lower, and
pawned thing after thing, and that now they lived in a
cellar in Berry Street, off Store Street. Barton growled
inarticulate words of no benevolent import to a large
class of mankind, and so they went along till they ar-
rived in Beny Street. It was unpaved; and down the
middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then
forming pools in the holes with which the street
abounded. Never was the Old Edinburgh cry of
" Grardez Teau," more necessary than in this street. As
they passed, women from their doors tossed household
slops of every description into the gutter ; they ran
into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated.
Heaps of ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the
passer-by, who cared in the least for cleanliness, took care
not to put his foot. Our friends were not dainty, but
even they picked their way till they got to some steptf
leading down into a small area, where a person standing
would have his head about one foot below the level of
the street, and might at the same time, without the least
motion of his body, touch the window of the cellar and
the damp muddy wall right opposite. You went down
one step even from the foul area into the cellar in which
a family of human beings lived. It was very dark in*

90 HAST babton:

side. The window-panes were many of them broken
and stuffed with rags, which was reason enough for the
dusky light that pervaded the place even at mid-day*
After the account I have given of the state of the street,
no one can be surprised that on going into the ceUar
inhabited by Davenport, the smell was so foetid as
almost to knock the two men down. Quickly recover-
ing themselves, as those inured to sudi things do, they
began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and
to see three or four little children rolling on the damp,
nay wet, brick floor, through which the stagnant, fll&y
moisture of the street oozed up ; the fire-place was
^npty and black ; the wife sat on her husband's lair,
and cried in the dank loneliness.

^' See, missis, I'm back again. — ^Hold your noise, chil-*
dren, and don't mither* your mammy for bread, here's a
chap as has got some for you."

In that dim light, which was darkness to strangers,
they clustered round Barton, and tore firom him the
food he had brought with him. It was a large hunch
of bread, but it had vanished in an instant.

" We mun do summut for 'em," said he to Wilson.
*' Yo stop here, and I'll be back in half-an-hour."

So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emp*
tied into the ever-usefiil pocket-handkerchief the little
meal remaining in the mug. Mary would have her
tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for the day was safe.
Thenhe wentup-stairs for his better coat,and his one, gay,

• "Mither," to^trouble and perplex, "fm welly mithered"— rm
w^ nigh crazed.

A TALE OF UANCHESTEB LIFE. 91

red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkercliief— his jeweb, his
pkte, his Taluables, these were. He went to the pawn-
shop ; he pawned them for five shillings ; he stopped
not, nor stajed^ till he was once more in London Road,
within five minntes' walk of Benj Street — then he
loitared in his gait, in order to disoovor the shops he
wimted. He bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles,
diips, and from a little retail yard he purchased a couple
of hundredweights of coals. Scnne money yet remained
— all destined for them, but he did not yet know how
best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had
instantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would
wjut. Wilson's eyes filled with tears when he saw
Barton enter with his purchases. He understood it all,
and longed to be once more in work, that he might help
in some of these material ways, without feeling that he
was using his son's money. But though '^ silver and
gold he had none," he gave heart-service, and love-
-works of far more value. Nor was John Barton behind
in these. ** The fever" was (as it usually is in Man-
chester), of a low, putrid, typhoid kind ; brought on by
miserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and great de«
piesaon of mind and body. It is virulent, malignant,
and highly infectious. But the poor are fatalists with
regard to infection ; and well for them it is so, for in
their crowded dwellings no invalid can be isolated.
Wilson asked Barton if he thought he should catch it,
and was laughed at for his idea.

The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were,
lighted the fire, which smoked and pufied into the room

92 MAEY BARTON:

as if it did not know the way up the damp, un-
used chimney. The very smoke seemed purif3dng and
healthy in the thick clammy air. The children cla-
moured again for bread; but this time Barton took a
piece first to the poor, helpless, hopeless woman, who
still sat by the side of her husband, listening to hia
anxious miserable mutterings. She took the bread,
when it was put into her hand, and broke a bit, but
could not eat. She was past hunger. She fell down
on the floor with a heavy unresisting bang. The men
looked puzzled. " She's well-nigh clemmed," said
Barton. "Folk do say one mustn't give clemmed
people much to eat ; but, bless us, she'll eat naught."

" rU teU yo what I'U do," said Wilson. " PU take
these two big lads, as does nought but fight, home to
my missis's for to-night, and I will get a- jug o' tea.
Them women always does best with tea and such like
slop."

So Barton was now left alone with a little child, cry-
ing (when it had done eating) for mammy; with a faint-
ing, dead-like woman; and with the sick man, whose
mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks of
agonised anxiety. He carried the woman to the fire,
and chafed her hands. He looked around for something
to raise her head. There was literally nothing but some
loose bricks. However, those he got; and taking off his
coat he covered them with it as well as he could. He pulled
her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint
heat. He looked round for water, but the poor woman
had been too weak to drag herself out to the distant'

A TALE OT MANCHESTER LIFE. 93

pump, and water there was none. He snatched the
child, and ran up the area-steps to the room ahove^ and
borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it.
Then he began, with the useful skill of a working-man,
to make some gruel; and when it was hastily made he
seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when many
other little things had been sold in a lot), in order to
feed baby, and with it he forced one or two drops
between her clenched teeth. The mouth opened me-
chanically to receive more, and gradually she revived.
She sat up and looked round; and recollecting all, fell
down again in weak and passive despair. Her little
child crawled to her, and wiped with its fingers the
thick-coming tears which she now had strength to weep.
It was now high time to attend to the man. He lay on
straw, so damp and mouldy no dog would have chosen
it in preference to flags; over it was a piece of sacking,
coming next to his worn skeleton of a body ; above him
was mustered every article of clothing that could be
spared by mother or children this bitter weather; and
in addition to his own, these might have given as much
warmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on
him ; but as he restlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off
and left him shivering in spite of the burning heat of
his skin. Every now and then he started up in his
naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the
fearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in ex-
haustion, and Barton found he must be closely watched,
lest in these falls he should injure himself against the
hard brick floor. He was thankful when Wilson re-

94 MABT BABTON :

appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea,
intended for the poor wife; but Trhen the deliriooa
husband saw drink, he snatched at it with animal in-
stinct, with a selfishness he had never shown in health.

Then the two men consulted together. It seemed
decided without a word being spoken on the subject,
that both shoidd spend the night with the forlorn
couple ; that was settled. But could no doctor be had?
In all probability no ; the next day an infirmary order
might be begged, but meanwhile the only medical ad*
vice they could have must be from a druggist's. So
Barton (being the moneyed man) set out to find a shop
in London Road.

It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with
lighted shops; the gas is so biilliant, the display of
goods 80 much more vividly shown than by day, and
of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the tales of
our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted
fruits to the charming Rosamond with her purple jar.
No such associations had Barton; yet he felt the con*
trast between the well-filled, well-Ughted shops and
the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody that
such contrasts should exist. They are the mysterious
problem of life to more than him. He wondered if any
in all the hurrying crowd, had come &om such a house
of mourning. He thought they all looked joyous, and
he was angry with them. But he could not, you can*
not, read the lot of those who daily pass you by in the
street. How do you know the wild romances of their
lives; the trials, the temptations they are even now en-

A TALE OF UANCHESTEB LIFE. 95

duziiig, resbtmg, sinking under ? You may be elbowed
one instant bj the girl desperate in her abandonmenti
laughing in mad meiiiment irith her outward gesture,
while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, and
bringing itself to think of the cold-flowing rirer as the
only mercy of God remaining to her here. Tou may
pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will
to-morrow shudder with horror as you read them. Tou
may push against one, humble and unnoticed, the last
upon earth, who in Heayen will for ever be in the im-
mediate light of God's countenance. Errands of mercy
— errands of sin — did you ever think where all the
thousands of people you daily meet are bound? Barton's
was an errand of mercy; but the thoughts of his heart
were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of the happy,
whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish.

He reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The
druggist (whose smooth manners seemed to have been
salved over with his own spermaceti) listened atten*
tively to Barton's description of Davenport's illness ;
concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that
neighbourhood ; and proceeded to make up a bottle of
medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent
potion, very good for slight colds, but utterly powerless
to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the poor
man it was intended to relieve. He recommended the
same course they had previously determined to adopt,
applying the next morning for an infirmary order; and
Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the
physic given him; for men of his class, if they believe

96 MABTBABTON:

in physic at all^ believe that every description is equally
^£5icacious.

Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at
Davenport's home. He had soothed, and covered the
man many a time ; he had fed and hushed the little
child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still
in her weakness and her weariness. He had opened a
door, but only for an instant ; it led into a back cellar,
with a grating instead of a window, down which
dropped the moisture from pigstyes, and worse abomina-
tions. It was not paved ; the floor was one mass of
bad smelling mud. It had never been used, for there
was not an article of furniture in it; nor could a human
being, much less a pig, have Uved there many days.
Yet the '^back apartment" made a difference in the
rent. The Davenports paid threepence more for
having two rooms. When he turned round again, he
saw the woman suckling the child from her dry,
withered breast.

*« Surely the lad is weaned!" eacclaimed he, in sur-
prise. " Why, how old is he ?"

** Going on two year," she faintly answered. " But,
oh ! it keeps him quiet when IVe nought else to gi'
him, and he'll get a bit of sleep lying there, if he's getten*
nought beside. We han done our best to gi' the
childert food, howe'er we pinched ourselves."

" Han{ ye had no money fra th' town ?"

* "For he had geten him yet no benefice.*'— Pyx^ue to Canter-
bury Tales.
t Wicklife uses " chtldre" in his Apology, page 26.
% " What concord han light and dark."-— Spender.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 97

^^ No ; my master is Buckinghamsliire bom ; and
he's feared the town would send him back to his parish,
if he went to th' board ; so we've just borne on in
hope o' better times. But I think they'll never come
in my day ;" and the poor woman began her weak
high-pitched cry again.

" Biere, sup* this drop o' gruel, and then try and get
a bit o' sleep. John and I'll watch by your master to-
night."

" God's blessing be on you 1"

She finished the- gruel, and fell into a dead sleep.
Wilson covered her with his coat as well as he could,
and tried to move lightly for fear of disturbing her ; but
there need have been no such dread, for her sleep waa
profound and heavy with exhaustion. Once only she
roused to pull the coat round her little child.

And now all Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot,
was wanted to restrain the wild mad agony of the
fevered man. He started up, he yelled, he seemed in-
furiated by overwhelming anxiety. He cursed and
swore, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in
health, and who did not know the unbridled tongue of
delirium. At length he seemed exhausted, and fell
asleep ; and Barton and Wilson drew near the fire, and
talked together in whispers. They sat on the floor, for
chairs there were none ; the sole table was an old tub
turned upside-down. They put out the candle and
conversed by the flickering fire-light.

" Han yo known this chap long?" asked Barton.
* "And thay aoupe the brothe thereof."— 5?r J, MandeviUe,

VOL. I. . H

98 KABTBABTOX:

** Better nor three year. He's worked wi' Carsons
that long, and were alway a steady, civil-spoken fellow^
though, as I said afore, somewhat of a Methodee. I
wish I'd gotten a letter he sent his missis, a week or two
agone, when he were on tramp for work. It did my heart
good to read it ; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling
mysel ; it seemed hard to be spunging on Jem, and
taking a' his flesh-meat money to buy bread for me and
them as I ought to be keeping. But, yo know, though
I can earn nought, I mun eat summut Well, as I telled
ye, I were grumbling, when she (indicating the sleeping
woman by a nod) brought me Ben's letter, for she
could na read hersel. It were as good as Bible-words ;
ne'er a word o' repining; a' about God being our
father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er he

" Don ye think he's th' masters' father, too ? I'd be
loath to have 'em for brothers.^'

'^ Eh, John I donna talk so ; sure there's many and
many a master as good or better nor us."

" If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they're
rich, and we're poor? I'd like to know that. Han
they done as they'd be done by for us ?"

But Wilson was no arguer. No speechifier as he
would have called it. So Barton, seeing he was likely
to have it his own way, went on.

" You'll say (at least many a one does), they'n* gotten
capital an' we'n gotten none. I say, our labour's our
capital and we ought to draw interest on that. They
• " Th^'n," contraction of " they han,** they have.

A TALE OF KAKCHESTEB LIFE. 99

get interest on their capital somehow a^ this timei while
cum is lying idle, else how could they all live as they
do ? Besides, there's many on 'em as had nought to
b^in wi'; there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Men-
gies, and many another, as comed into Manchester with
clothes to their hack, and that were all, and now they're
worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of our
labour ; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound
twenty year agone is now worth six hundred, and that,
too, is owing to our labour: but look at yo, and see me,
and poor Davenport yonder ; whatten better are we ?
They'n screwed us down to th* lowest peg, in order
to make their great big fortunes, and build their great
big houses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and
many of us. Can you say there's nought wrong in
tins?"

" Well, Barton, I'll not gainsay ye. But Mr. Carson
spoke to me after th' fire, and says he, ' I shall ha' to
letrench, and be very careful in my expenditure duiing
these bad times, I assure ye ;' so yo see th' masters
Buffer too."

" Han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want
o' food ?" asked Barton, in a low, dee^ voice.

" I donnot mean," continued he, " to say as I'm so
badly off. I'd scorn to speak for mysd ; but when I
see such men as Davenport there dying away, for very
clemming, I cannot stand it. I've but gotten Mary,
and she keeps hersel pretty much. I think we'll ha' to
give Tjp house-keeping ; but that I donnot mind."

And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy
h2

100 HAfiY BARTON :

night of watching, wore away. As far as they could
judge, Davenport continued in the same state, although,
the symptoms varied occasionally. The wife slept on>
only roused by a cry of her child now and then, which
seemed to have power over her, when far louder noises
failed to disturb her. The watchers agreed, that as
soon as it was likely Mr. Carsofi would be up and
visible, Wilson should go to his house, and beg for an
Infirmary order. At length the gray dawn penetrated
even into the dark cellar; Davenport slept, and Barton
was to remain there until Wilson's return ; so stepping
out into the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in that
street of abominations, Wilson took his way to Mr.
Carson's.

Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached
Mr. Carson's house, which was almost in the country.
The streets were not yet bustling and busy. The shop-
men were lazily taking down the shutters, although it
was near eight o'clock ; for the day was long enough
for the purchases people made in that quarter of the
town, while trade was so flat. One or two miserable-
looking women were setting off on their day's begging
expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr.
Carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard
to expense. But in addition to lavish expenditure,
there was much taste shown, and many articles chosen
for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. As
Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown
open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which \e was
tempted to stop and look ; but then he thought it

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 101

would riot be respectful. So he hastened on to the
Ktchen door. The servants seemed very busy with
preparations for breakfast ; but good-naturedly, though
hastily, told him to step in, and they could soon let
Mr. Carson know he was there. So he was ushered
into a kitchen hung round with glittering tins, where a
roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of
utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson
amused himself by guessing. Meanwhile, the servants
bustled to and fro ; an out-door man-servant came in
for orders, and sat down near Wilson; the cook broiled
steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled
eggs.

The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the
odours were so mixed and appetizing, that Wilson
began to yearn for food to break his fast, which had
ksted since dinner the day before. If the servants had
known this, they would have willingly given him meat
and bread in abundance ; but they were like the rest of
us, and not feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was
possible another might. So Wilson's craving turned to
sickness, while they chattered on, making the kitchen's
firee and keen remarks upon the parlour.

" How late you were last night, Thomas !"

" Yes, I was right weary of waiting ; they told me
to be at the rooms by twelve; and there I was. But it
was two o'clock before they called me."

" And did you wait all that time in the street ?"
asked the housemaid, who had done her work for the
present, and come into the kitchen for a bit of

102 MAHT BABTON :

" My eye as like ! you don't think I'm such a fool
as to catch my death of cold, and let the horses catch
their death too, as we should ha^ done if we'd stopped
there. No I I put th' horses up in th' stables at tV
Spread Eagle, and went myseV, and got a glass or two
by th* fire. They're driving a good custom, them, wi^
coachmen. There were five on us, and we'd many a
quart o' ale, and gin wi' it, to keep out cold."

" Mercy on us, Thomas ; you^U get a drunkard at
lastr

" If I do, I know whose blame it will be. It will be
missis's, and not mine. Flesh and blood can't sit to be
starved to death on a coach-box, waiting for folks as
don't know their own mind."

A servant, semi-upper-housemaid, [semi-lady's-maid,
now came down with orders from her mistress.

^' Thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger's, and
say missis can't give above half-a-crown a pound for
salmon for Tuesday; she's grumbling because trade's so
bad. And she'll want the carriage at three to go to the
lecture, Thomas; at the Royal Execution, you know.'*

" Ay, ay, I know."

" And you'd better all of you mind your P's and Q's,
for she's very black this morning. She's got a bad
headache."

'* It's a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her.
Lord I how she and missis did quarrel which had got
the worst headaches, it was that Miss Jenkins left for ;
she would not give up having bad headaches, and missis
could not abide any one to have 'em but herself."

A TAJLE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 103

<' Missis will have her breakfast upwrtairs, cook, and
tbe cold partridge as was left yesterday^ and put plenty
of cream in her coJBTee, and she thinks there's a roll left,
and she would like it well buttered."

So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to
attend to the young ladies' bell when they chose to ring,
after their late assembly the night before.

In the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast*
table^ sat the two Mr. Carsons, father and son. Both
were reading; the father a newspaper, the son a review,
while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food.
The father was a prepossessing-looking old man; per«
haps self-indulgent you might guess. The son was
strikingly handsome, and knew it. His dress was neat
and well appointed, and his manners far more gentle-
manly than his father's. He was the only son, and his
sisters were proud of him ; his father and mother were
proud of him : he could not set up his judgment against
theirs ; he was proud of himself.

The door opened and in bounded Amy, the sweet
youngest daughter of the house, a lovely girl of six-
teen^ fresh and glowing, and bright as a rosebud. She
was too young to go to assemblies, at which her father
rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes,
and her bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all
the evening to amuse him in his loneliness; and she was
not too much tired, like Sophy and Helen, to give him
her sweet company at breakfast the next morning.

He submitted willingly while she blinded him with
her hands, and kissed his rough red face all over. She

104 MAJEIY BARTON :

took his newspaper away after a little pretended resist-
ance, and would not allow her brother Harry to go on
with his review.

" I'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know
you must make a great deal of me."

'* My darling, I think you have your own way al-
ways, whether you're the only lady or not."

" Yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, I must
say that ; but I'm sorry to say Harry is very naughty,
and does not do what I tell him ; do you, Harry?"

'* I'm sure I don't know what you mean to accuse me
of, Amy; I expected praise and not blame; for did not
I get you that eau de Portugal from town, that you
could not meet with at Hughes', you little ungrateful
puss ?"

" Did you ! Oh sweet Harry; you're as sweet as eau
de Portugal yourself; you're almost as good as papa;
but still you know you did go and forget to ask Big-
land for that rose, that new rose they say he has got."

" No, Amy, I did not forget. I asked him, and he
has got the Rose, sans reproche ; but do you know,
little Miss Extravagance, a very small one is half a
guinea ?"

*^ Oh, I donH mind. Papa will give it me, won't
you, dear father? He knows his little daughter can't
live without flowers and scents?"

Mr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed
him into acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was
one of her necessaries. Life was not worth having
without flowers.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 105

** Then, Amy," said her brother, " try and be content
with peonies and dandelions."

" Oh you wretch I I don't call them flowers. Besides,
you're every bit as extravagant. Who gave half-a-
crown for a bunch of lilies of the valley at Yates', a
month ago, and then would not let his poor little sister
have them, thoughshe went on her knees to beg them ?
Answer me that. Master Hal."

" Not on compulsion," replied her brother, smiling
with his mouth, while his eyes had an irritated expres-
sion, and he went first red, then pale, with vexed em-
barrassment.

*^ If you please, sir," said a servant, entering the room,
" here's one of the mill people wanting to see you; his
name is Wilson, he says."

" I'll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in
here."

Amy danced ofl* into the conservatory which opened
out of the room, before the gaunt, pale, unwashed,
unshaven weaver was ushered in. There he stood at
the door, sleeking his hair with old country habit, and
every now and then stealing a glance round at the
splendour of the apartment.

" Well, Wilson, and what do you want to-day,
man ?"

" Please, sir, Davenport's ill of the fever, and I'm
come to know if you've got an Infirmary order for
him?"

"Davenport — Davenport; who is the fellow? I don't
know the name."

106 MABT BABTON t

" He's worked in your factoiy better nor tliree year,
sir/'

'* Veiy likely, I don't pretend to know the names of
the men I employ; that I leave to the overlooker. So
he's iU, eh r

" Ay, sir, he's very bad; we want to get him in at
the fever wards.

" I doubt if I have an in-patient's order to spare ;
they're always wanted for accidents, you know. But
I'll give you an out-patient's, and welcome."

So saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a
minute, and then gave Wilson an out-patient's order
to be presented the following Monday. Monday ! How
many days there were before Monday !

Meanwhile, the younger Mr. Carson had ended his
review^ and began to listen to what was going on. He
finished his breakfast, got up, and pulled five shillings
out of his pocket, which he gave to Wilson as he passed
him, for the " poor fellow." He went past quickly, and
calling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away.
He was anxious to be in time to have a look and a
smile from lovely Mary Barton, as she went to Miss
Simmonds'. But to-day he was to be disappointed.
Wilson left the house, not knowing whether to be
pleased or grieved. It was long to Monday, but they
had all spoken kindly to him, and who could tell if
they might not remember this, and do something before
Monday. Besides, the cook, who, when she had had
time to think, after breakfast was sent in, had noticed
his paleness, had had meat and bread ready to put in

A TALE OF MANCHESTBB LIFE. 107

liis hand when he came oat of the parlour ; and a full
stomach makes every one of us more hopeful.

When he reached Berry Street, he had persuaded
himself he bore good news, and felt almost elated in his
heart. But it fell when he opened the cellar-door, and
saw Barton and the wife both bending over the sick
man's couch with awe-struck, saddened look.

"Come here," said Barton. "There's a change
oomed over him sin' yo left, is there not ?"

Wilson looked. The flesh was sunk, the features
prominent, bony, and rigid. The fearful clay-colour of
death was over all. But the eyes were open and sen-
sible, though the films of the grave were settling upon
them.

** He wakened fira his sleep, as yo left him in, fend
began to mutter and moan; but he soon went off again,
and we never knew he were awake till he called his
wife, but now she's here he's gotten nought to say
to her."

Most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak,
for his strength was fast ebbing. They stood round
him still and silent ; even the wife checked her sobs,
though her heart was like to break. She held her
child to her breast, to try and keep him quiet. Their
eyes were all fixed on the yet living one, whose mo-
ments of life were passing so rapidly away. At length
he brought, (with jerking, convulsive eflbrt) his two
hands into the attitude of prayer. They saw his lips
move, and bent to catch the words, which came in
gasps, and not in tones.

108 MARY BABTON :

" Oh Lord God ! I thank thee, that the hard struggle
of living IS over."

" Oh, Ben ! Ben I" wailed forth his wife, '* have
you no thought for me ? Oh, Ben ! Ben ! do say one
word to help me through life."

He could not speak again. Tlie trump of the
archangel would set his tongue free ; but not a word
more would it utter till then. Yet he heard, he un-
derstood, and though sight failed, he moved his hand
gropingly over the covering. They knew what he
meant, and guided it to her head, bowed and hidden
in her hands, when she had sunk in her woe. It
rested there, with a feeble pressure of endearment.
The face grew beautiful, as the soul neared God. A
peace beyond understanding came over it. The hand
was a heavy, stiff weight on the wife's head. No more
grief or sorrow for him. They reverently laid out the
corpse — Wilson fetching his only spare shirt to array
it in. The wife still lay hidden in the clothes^ in a
stupor of agony.

There was a knock at the door, and Barton went to
open it. It was Mary, who had received a message
from her father, through a neighbour, telling her where
he was ; and she had set out early to come and have a
word with him before her day's work ; but some
errands she had to do for Miss Simmonds had detained
her until now. .

" Come in. Wench !" said her father. " Try if thou
canst comfort yon poor, poor woman, kneeling down
there. God help her." Mary did not know what to

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 109

say, or how to comfort ; but she knelt down by her,
and put her arm round her neck, and in a little while
fell to crying herself so bitterly, that the source of tears
was opened by sympathy in the widow, and her full
heart was, for a time, relieved.

And Mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay
lover, Harry Carson ; forgot Miss Simmonds' errands,
and her anger, in the anxious desire to comfort the poor
lone woman. Never had her sweet face looked more
angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so mu-
sical as when she murmured her broken sentences of
comfort.

" Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport, pray
don't take on so. Sure he's gone where he'll never
know care again. Yes, I know how lonesome you
must feel ; but think of your children. Oh ! we'll all
help to earn food for 'em. Think how sorry he'd be, if
he sees you fretting so. Don't cry so, please don't."

And she ended by crying herself, as passionately as
the poor widow.

It was agreed that the town must bury him ; he had
paid to a burial club as long as he could ; but by a
few weeks' omission, he had forfeited his claim to a
sum of money now. Would Mrs. Davenport and the
little child go home with Mary ? The latter bright-
ened up as she urged this plan ; but no ! where the
poor, fondly loved remains were, there would the
inoumer be ; and all that they could do was to make
her as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to
beg a neighbour to look in and say a word at times.

110 mabtbaetok:

So she was left alone with her dead, and they went
to work that had work, and he who had none, took
upon him the arrangements for the funeraL

Mary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that
day for her absencje of mind. To be sure Miss Simmonds
was much put out by Mary's non-appearance in the
morning with certain bits of muslin, and shades of rilk
which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn
that night ; but it was true enough that Mary did not
mind what she was about ; she was too busy planning
how her old black gown (her best when her mother
died) might be spunged, and turned, and lengthened
into something like decent mourning for the widow.
And when she went home at night (though it was very
late, as a sort of retribution for her morning's negK-
gence), she set to work at once, and was so busy, and so
glad over her task, that she had, every now and then, to
check herself in singing merry ditties, that she felt little
accorded with the sewing on which she was engaged.

So when the funeral day came, Mrs. Davenport was
. neatly arrayed in black, a satisfaction to her poor heart
in the midst of her sorrow. Barton and Wilson both
accompanied her, as she l6d her two elder boys, and
followed the coffin. It was a simple walking funeral,
with nothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more
in accordance with its purpose, to my mind, than the
gorgeous hearses, and nodding plumes, which form the
grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people. There
was no ** rattling the bones over the stones," of the
pauper's funeral. Decently and patiently was he fot

A TALE OF lEAKCHSSTER LIFE. Ill

lowed to the grave by one determined to endure her
woe meeUj for his sake. The only mark of pauperism
attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous,
far more than the dead, or the sorrowful. When they
arrived in the churchyard, they halted before a raised
and handsome tombstone ; in reality a wooden mockery
of stone respectabilities which adorned the burial-
ground. It was easily raised in a very few minutes,
and below was the grave in which pauper bodies were
piled imtil within a foot or two of the surface ; when
the soil was shovelled over, and stamped down, and
the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over
another hole.* But little they recked of this who now
gave up their dead.

• The case, to my oertain knowledge, in one churchyard in
Manchester. There may he more.

112 MARY BARTON "

CHAPTER VII.

" How infinite the wealth of love and hope
Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses!
And oh I what bankrupts in the world we feel,
When Death, like some remorseless creditor.
Seizes on all we fondly thought our own I"

"Thb Twins."

The ghoul-like fever was not to be braved -with
impunity, and baulked of its prey. The widow had
reclaimed her children ; her neighbours, in the good
Samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears
of rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with
the world. She determined to flit from that cellar
to another less full of painful associations, less haunted
by mournful memories. The board, not so formidable
as she had imagiiied, had inquired into her case ; and,
instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband's
Buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed
to pay her rent. So food for four mouths was all
she was now required to find ; only for three she would
have said; for herself, and the unweaned child were
but reckoned as one in her calculation.

She had a strong heart, now hier bodily strength had

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 113

been recruited by a week or two of food, and she
would not despair. So she took in some little children
to nurse, who brought their daily food with them,
which she cooked for them, without wronging their
helplessness of a crumb ; and when she had restored
them to their mothers at night, she set to work at
plain sewing, *' seam, and gusset^ and band," and sat
thinking how she might best cheat the factory inspec-
tor, and persuade him that her strong, big, hungry Ben
was above thirteen. Her plan of living was so far ar-
ranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that Wil-
son's twin lads were ill of the fever.

They had never been strong. They were like many
a pair of twins, and seemed to have but one life divided
between them. One life, one strength, and in this
instance I might almost say, one brain ; for they were
helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear to
their parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder
brother. They were late on their feet, late in talking,
late every way ; had to be nursed and cared for when
other lads of their age were tumbling about in the
street, and losing themselves, and being taken to the
police-office miles away from home.

Still want had never yet come in at the door to make
love for these innocents fly out at the window. Nor
was this the case even now, when Jem Wilson's earnings,
and his mother's occasional charrings were barely suffi-
cient to give all the family their fill of food.

But when the twins, after ailing many days, and
caring little for their meat, fell sick on the same after-

VOL. I. I

114 MABY babton:

noon, with the same heavy stupor of suffeiingy the
three hearts that loved them so, each felt, though none
acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance
for life. It was nearly a week before the tale of their
illness spread as far as the court where the Wilsons had
once dwelt, and the Bartons yet lived.

Alice had heard of the illness of her little nephews
several days before, and had locked her cellar door, and
gone off straight to her brother's house, in Ancoats ;
bat she was often absent for days, sent for, as her
neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency
of illness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise.

Margaret met Jem Wilson several days after his
brothers were seriously ill, and heard &om him the
state of things at his home. She told Mary of it as she
entered the court late that evening ; and Mary listened
with saddened heart to the strange contrast which such
woeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she
had been hearing on her walk home. She blamed herself
for being so much taken up with visions of the golden
future, that she had lately gone but seldom on Sunday
afternoons, or other leisure time, to see Mrs. Wilson, her
mother's friend ; and with hasty purpose of amendment
she only stayed to leave a message for her father with the
next-door neighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace
on her way to the house of mourning.

She stopped with her hand on the latch of the Wil-
sons' door, to still her beating heart, and listened to the
hushed quiet within. She opened the door softly : there
sat Mrs. Wilson in the old rocking-chair, with one sick^

A TALE OF 3IANCHE8TEB LIFE. 115

death^like 1>oy lying on her knee, crying without let or
pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to disturb the troubled
gasping child; while behind her, old Alice let her fast-
dropping tears down fall on the dead body of the other
twin, which she was laying out on a board, placed on a
sort of sofa-settee in a comer of the room. Over the
child, which yet breathed, the father bent, watching
anxiously for some ground of hope, where hope there
was none. Mary stepped slowly and lightly across to
Alice.

" Ay, poor lad ! God has taken him early, Mary."
Mary could not speak; she did not know what to
say; it was so much worse than she expected. At last
she ventured to whisper,

" Is there any chance for the other one, think you?"
Alice shook her head, and told with a look that she
believed there was none. She next endeavoured to lift
the little body, and carry it to its old-accustomed bed
in its parent's room. But earnest as the father was in
watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all
that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and
took his dead son on his hard couch in his arms with
tender strength, and carried him upstairs as if afraid of
wakening him.

The other child gasped longer, louder, v^th more of
eflfort.

" We mun get him away from his mother. He can-
not die while she's wishing him."

" Wishing him?" said Mary, in a tone of inquiry.
" Ay; donno ye know what wishing means? There's
12

116 MAET BARTON:

none can die in the arms of those who are wishing them
sore to stay .on earth. The soul o' them as holds them
won't let the dying soul go free; so it has a hard struggle
for the quiet of death. We mun get him away fra* his
mother, or he'll have a hard death, poor lile* fellow."

So without circumlocution she went and offered to
take the sinking child. But the mother would not let
him go, and looking in Alice^s face with brimming and
imploring eyes, declared in earnest whispers, that she
was not wishing him, that she would fain have him re-
leased from his suffering. Alice and Mary stood by
with eyes fixed on the poor child, whose struggles
seemed to increase, till at last his mother said with a
choking voice,

** May happenf y o'd better take him, Alice; I believe
my heart's wishing him a' this while, for I cannot, no, I
cannot bring mysel to let my two childer go in one
day; I cannot help longing to keep him, and yet he
sha'not suffer longer for me."

She bent down, and fondly, oh! with what pas-
sionate fondness, kissed her child, and then gave him
up to Alice, who took him with tender care. Nature's
struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his little
life away in peace.

Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her
cries brought her husband down to try with his aching
heart to comfort hers. Again Alice laid out the dead,

* "Lile," a north-countiy word for "little.**

« Wit leil labour to lire.**— Plj«r# Phughman.
t "May happen,*' perhaps.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 117

Mary helping with reverent fear. The father and mo-
ther carried him up-stairs to the bed, where his little
brother lay in calm repose.

Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet
sorrow for some time. Then Alice broke the silence by
saying,

" It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he
comes home."

** Where is he ?'* asked Mary.

" Working over-hours at th' shop. They'n getten a
large order fra* forrin parts; and yo' know, Jem mun
work, though his heart's well-nigh breaking for these
poor laddies."

Again they were silent in thought^ and again Alice
spoke first.

** I sometimes think the Lord is against planning.
Whene'er I plan over-much, He is sure to send and
xnar all my plans, as if He would ha' me put the future
into His hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as full as
full could be, of going home for good and all; yo' han
heard how I've wished it this terrible long time.
And a young lass from behind Burton came into place
in Manchester last Martinmas; so after awhile, she had
a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some
cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad
they should be to ha* me to bide wi' em, and look after
th* childer, for they'n getten a big farm, and she's a
deal to do among th' cows. So many a winter's night
did I lie awake and think, that please God, come sum-
mer, I'd bid George and his wife good bye, and go

118 HABTBABTOK:

home at last. Little did I think how Grod Almighty
would baulk me, for not leaving mj days in His hands,
who had led me through the wilderness hitherto. Here's
George out o' work, and more cast down than ever I
seed him; wanting every chip o' comfort he can get,
e*en afore this last heavy stroke; and now I*m thinking
the Lord's finger points very clear to my fit abiding
place; and Tm sure if George and Jane can say * His
will be done,' it's no more than what I'm beholden to do."

So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as
much as she cpuld every vestige of sickness; making up
the fibre, and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for
her sister-in-law, whose low moans and sobs were
occasionally heard in the room below.

Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were
busy in this way when the door was softly opened, and
Jem came in, all grimed and dirty from his night-
work, his soiled apron wrapped round his middle, in
guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at
another time to have been seen by Mary. But just now
he hardly saw her; he went straight up to AKce, and
asked how the little chaps were. They had been a
shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working
away through the long afternoon, and far into the night,
in the behef that they had taken the turn. He had stolen
out during the half-hour allowed at the works for tea,
to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed out his
jacket-pocket.

He would make his aunt speak; he would not under*
stand her shakes of the head and fast coursing tears.

A TALE OF MAKCHESXEB LIFB. 119

" They're both gone," said she.

"Deadr

" Ay ! poor fellows. They took worse about two
o'clock. Jem went first, as easy as a lamb, and Will
died harder like."

"Both!"

" Ay, lad I botih. The Lord has ta'en them from
some evil to come, or He would na ha' made choice o'
them. Ye may rest sure o' that."

Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from
his pocket the oranges he had bought. But he stayed
long there, and at last his sturdy frame shook with his
strong agony. The two women were frightened, as wo-
men always are, on vdtnessing a man's overpowering
grief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart
melted within her as she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she
stepped gently up to the comer where he stood^ with his
back turned to them, and putting her hand softly on
his arm, said,

" Oh, Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see
you.

Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew
the power she had of comforting him. He did not
speak, as though fearing to destroy by sound or motion
the happiness of that moment, when her soft hand's
touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice
was whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes ! it might
be very wrong; he could almost hate himself for it;
with death and woe so surrounding him, it yet was
happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary.

120 HART BABTOK:

" Don't, Jem, please don't," whispered she again^
believing that his silence was only another form of
grief.

He could not contain himself. He took her hand in
his firm yet trembling grasp, and said, in tones that in-*-
stantly produced a revulsion in her mood,

" Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would
not give up this minute, when my brothers lie dead,
and father and mother are in such trouble, for all my
life that's past and gone. And, Mary (as she tried
to release her hand), you know what makes me feel so
blessed."

She did know — ^he was right there. But as he
turned to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that
it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amounting to
vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost
repugnance.

He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to
Alice'^s side.

** Fool that I was — nay, wretch that I was — to let
myself take this time of trouble to tell her how I loved
her; no wonder that she turns away from such a selfish
beast."

Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly
from natural desire, and partly, perhaps, from a peni-
tent wish to share to the utmost his parent's somrow, he
soon went up-stairs to the chamber of death.

Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she
performed through the remainder of that long night,
but she did not see Jem again. He remained up-stairs

A TALE OF HANGHE8TBB LIFE. 121

until after the early dawn showed Mary that she need
have no fear of going home through the deserted and
quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work hour.
So leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson^
and hesitating whether she might dare to send a few kind
words to Jem^ and deciding that she had better not,
she stepped out into the bright morning light, so fresh
a contrast to the darkened room where death had been.

«*Tbeyhad
Another mom than ours."

Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes ; and
whether it was this, or the broad daylight that poured in
through the sky-window, or whether it was over-excite-
menty it was long before she could catch a wink of
deep. Her thoughts ran on Jem'^s manner and words;
not but what she had known the tale they told for
many a day; but sdll she wished he had not put it so
plainly.

" Oh dear," said she to herself, " I wish he would
not mistake me so ; I never dare to speak a common
word o' kindness, but his eye brightens and his cheek
flushes. It's very hard on me; for father and George
Wilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha' known each
other since we were quite children. I cannot think
what possesses me, that I must always be wanting to
comfort him when he's downcast, and that I must go
meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was
his aiint*s place to speak to him. I don't care for him,
and yet, unless I'm always watching myself, I'm speaking
to him in a loving voice. I think I cannot go right,

122 XABT babton:

for I either check myself till I'm downright cross to
him, or else I speak just mitural, and that^s too kind
and tender by half. And I'm asgoodas engaged to be
married to another ; and another &r handsomer than
Jem; only I think I like Jem's face best for all that;
liking's liking, and there's no help for it. Well, whea
Fm Mrs. Harry Carson, may happen I can put some
good fortune in Jem's way. But will he thank me for
it ? He's rather savage at times, that I can see, and
perhaps kindness from me, when Pm another^s, will
only go against the grain. I'll not plague myself wi'
thinking any more about him, that I won't."

So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and
dreamt of what was often in her waking thoughts ; of
the day when she should ride from church in her car*
riage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up hei
astonished father, and drive away from the old dim
work-a-day court for ever, to live in a grand housCi
where her father should have newspapers, and pam-
phlets, and pipes, and meat dinners, eveiy day^ — and
all day long if he liked.

Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the
handsome young Mr. Carson, who, unfettered by work-
hours, let scarcely a day pass without contriving a meet-
ing with the beautiful little milliner he had first seen
while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making
some purchases^ and afterwards never rested till he had
freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in
her daily walks. He was, to use his own expression to
himself^ quite infatuated by her, and was restless each

A TALE OF MANCHS8TEH LIFE.' 12S

day tili the time came when he had a chance, and, of
late, more than a chance of meeting her. There waa
something of keen practical shrewdness about her, which
contrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish,
imworldly ideas she had picked up from the romances
which Miss Simmonds* young ladies were in the habit
of recommending to eadi other.

Yes ! Mary was ambitious, and did not farour Mr.
Carson the less because he was rich and a gentleman.
The old leaven, infused years ago by her aunt Esther,
fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps all the more,
for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle.
Snch is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve
downwards, that we all, in our old-Adam state, fancy
things forbidden sweetest. So Mary dwelt upon and
enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and
doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to lady-
hood. It was a comfort to her, when scolded by Miss
Simmonds, to think of the day when she would drive
up to the door in her own carriage, to order her gowns
from the hasty tempered, yet kind dressmaker. It was
a pleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the
two elder Miss Carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-
room and street, on horseback and on foot, and to think
of the time when she should ride and walk with them
in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, the
holiest, that which in some measure redeemed the
vanity of the rest, were those relating to her father; her
dear father, now opressed with care, and always a dis-
heartened, gloomy person. How she would surround

124 MABT BABTON :

him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he
was to Uve with them) ; till he should acknowledge riches
to be very pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter !
Every one who had shown her kindness in her low
estate should then be repaid a hundred-fold.

Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in
which Mary indulged, and which she was doomed in
after days to expiate with many tears.

Meanwhile, her words — or, even more, her tones —
would maintain their hold on Jem Wilson's memory.
A thrill would yet come over him when he remembered
how her hand had rested on his arm. The thought of
her mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for
the loss of his brothers.

X TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 12^

CHAPTER Vm.

" Deal gently with them, they have much endured.
Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,
Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.
Perchance, in the rough school of stem experience.
They've something learned which Theory does not teach;
Or if they greatly err, deal gently still.
And let their error hut the stronger plead
'Give us the light and guidance that we need !**'

LovK Thoughts.

Ok£ Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that
mournful night, Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible
purpose of calling on John Barton. He was dressed in
his best, his Sunday suit of course; while his face glit-
tered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His
dark black hair had been arranged and re-arranged
before the household looking-glass^ and in liis button-
hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet Nancy is its pretty
Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary's no-
tice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.

It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that
Mary saw him some minutes before he came into her fa-
ther'shouse. She wassitting at theend of the dresser, with

126 MART BARTOK:

the little window-blind drawn on one ade, in order that
she might see the passers-by, in the intervals of reading
her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched
all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of
condolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had
time to arrange her own face and manner before Jem
came in, which he did, as if he had eyes for no one
but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire,
while he read an old " Northern Star," borrowed from
a neighbouring public-house.

Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt by the sure
instinct of love, by which almost his body thought, was
present. Her hands were busy adjusting her dress; a
forced and unnecessary movement Jem could not help
thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly^ if grave;
she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she
could prevent it, while Jem wondered if her blushes
arose from fear, or anger, or love.

She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended
to read diligently, and not to listen to a word that was
said, while, in fact, she heard all sounds, even to Jem's
long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At last she
took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed
her, went up-stairs to her little room. And she had
scarcely spoken a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him;
never noticed his beautiful sweet Nancy, which only
awaited her least word of praise to be hers ! He did not;
know — that pang was spared — ^that in her little dingy
bed-room, stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant
bunch of early spring roses, making the whole room

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 127

fjragrant and bright. They were the gift of her richer
loyer. So Jem had to go on sitting with John Barton»
fiurly caught in his own trap^ and had to listen to his
talk, and answer him as best he might.

'^ There's the right stuff in this here ^ Star^' and no
mistake. Such a right-down piece for short hours."

" At the same rate of wages as now?" asked Jem.

" Ay, ay! else where's the use? It's only taking out
o' the master's pocket what they can well afford. Did I
ever tell yo what th' Infirmary chap let me into, many
a year agone?"

" No/' said Jem, listlessly.

" Well ! yo must know I were in th' Infirmary for a
fever, and times were rare and bad ; and there be good
chaps there to a man, while he's wick,* whatever they
may be about cutting him up at after.t So when I were
better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to me,
says they, * If yo' can write, yo may stay in a week
longer, and help our surgeon wi^ sorting his papers ;
and we'll take care yo*ve your belly fiiU o' meat and
drink. Yo'll be twice as strong in a week.' So there
wanted but one word to that bargain. So I were set to
writing and copying ; th' writing I could do well enough,
but they'd such queer ways o' spelling that I'd ne'er
been used to, that I'd to look first at th* copy and then
at my letters, for all the world like a cock picking up

• «« Wick," alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. " The quick and the dead."
-•^Book of Cbminoft Prayer.
t "At after."

*' At after souper goth this noble king."

Chaucer; The Squire^s Tale.

128 HABTBABTOK:

grains o*com. But one thing startled me e'en then, and
I thought I'd make bold to ask the surgeon the mean*^
ing o't. I've gotten no head for numbers, but this I
know, that by far tK greater part d th^ accidents as
earned in, happened in th* last two hours o' work, when
folk getten tired and careless. Th' surgeon said it were
all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to
Kght."

Jem was pondering Mary's conduct ; but the pause
made him aware he ought to utter some civil listening
noise; so he said

" Very true."

"Ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly
over-borne, and worse will come of it afore long. Block-
printers is going to strike; they'n getten a bang-up
union, as won't let 'em be put upon. But there's many
a thing will happen afore long, as folk don't expect.
Yo may take my word for that, Jem."

Jem was very willing to take it, but did not express
the curiosity he should have done. So John Barton
thought he'd try another hint or two.

" Working folk won't be ground to the dust much
longer, We'n a' had as much to bear as human nature
can bear. So, if th' masters can't do us no good, and
they say they can't, we mun try higher folk."

Still Jem was not curious. He gave up hope of
seeing Mary again by her own good free will; and the
next best thing would be, to be alone to think of her.
So, muttering something which he meant to serve as an
excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished John

A TALE or MAXCHESTEB LIFE. 129

good afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and hiA
politics.

For three years past, trade had been getting worse and
worse, »nd the price (>£ provisions higher and higher.
This disparity between the amount of the earnings of
the working classes, and the price of their food, occa-
sioned in more cases than could well be imagined,
disease and death. Whole families went through a
gradual starvation. They only wanted a Dante to
record their sufferings. And yet even his words would
fall short of the awful truth ; they could only present
an outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution
that surrounded thousands upon thousands in the
teirible years 1839, 1840, and 1841. Even philan-
thropists who had studied the subject, were forced to
own themselves perplexed in the endeavour to ascertain
the real causes of the misery ; the whole matter was of
so complicated a nature, that it became next to impos*
sible to understand it thoroughly. It need excite no sur-
prise then to learn that a bad feeling between working-
men and the upper classes became very strong in this
season of privation. The indigence and sufferings of
the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds of many
of them, that their legislators, their magistrates, their
employers, and even the ministers of religion, were, in
general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in
league for their prostration and enthralment. The
most deplorable and enduring evil that arose out of the
period of commercial depression to which I refer, was
this feeling of alienation between the different classes of

VOL. I. K

ISO MABT babton:

society. It ifl so imposable to describe, or even iaintlj
to picture, the state of distress wHch prevailed in the
town at that time, that I will not attempt it ; and
yet I think again that surely/in a Christians land, it
was not known even [so feebly as words could tell it,
or the more happy and fortunate would have thronged
with their sympathy and their aid. In many in-
stances the sufferers wept first, and then they cursed*
Their vindictive feeUngs exhibited themselves in rabid
politics. And when I hear, as I have heard, of the
sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision
shops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even
flour, were sold to accommodate the indigent, — of
parents sitting in their clothes by the fire-side during
the whole night for seven weeks together, in order that
their only bed and bedding might be reserved for the
use of their large fiunily,-^f others sleeping upon the
cold hearth-stone for weeks in succession, without
adequate means of providing themselves with food or
fiiel (and this in the depth of winter)^— of others being
compelled to fast for days together, imcheered by any
hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather
starving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gra-
dually sinking under the pressure of want and despair
into a premature grave; and when this has been con-
firmed by the evidence of their care-worn looks, their
excited feelings, and their desolate homes,-— can I wonder
that many of than, in such times of misery and desti-
tution^ spoke and acted with ferocious precipitation ?
An idea was now springing up among the opera-

A TALE OV ItANCHESTEK LIPE. 131

tives, that originated with the Chartists^ but which
eame at last to be cherished as a dariing child by many
and many a one. They could not believe that go-
vernment knew of their misery; they rather chose to
think it possible that men could voluntarily assume
tilie o£Sce of legislators for a nation, ignorant of its
teal state ; as who should make domestic rules for
the pretty behaviour of children, without caring to
know that those children had been kept for days
without food. Besides, the starving multitudes had
heard^ that the very existence of their distress had
been denied in Parliament; and though they felt this
strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery
had still to be revealed in all its depths, and that then
some remedy would be found, soothed their aching
hearts, and kept down their rising fury.

So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in
the bright spring days of 1839, imploring Parliament
to hear witnesses who could testify to the unparalleled
destitution of the manufacturing districts. Notting-
ham, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester, and many other
towns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this
petition, who might speak, not merely of what they
had seen, and had heard, but from what they had borne
and suffered. Life-worn, gaunt, anxious, hunger-
stamped men, were those delegates.

One of them was John Barton. He would have
been ashamed to own the flutter of spirits his appoint-
ment gave him. There was the childish delight of
seeing London — that went a little way, and but a little

k2

132 MARTBABTOK:

way. There was the vain idea of speaking out his
notions before so many grand folk — that went a little
further ; and last, there was the really pure gladness
of heart, arising from the idea that he was one of those
chosen to be instruments in making known the dis-
tresses of the people^ and consequently in procuring
them some grand relief, by means of which they should
never suffer want or care any more. He hoped largely,
but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. An
argosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despair-
ing creatures, was that petition to be heard concerning
their sufferings.

The night before the morning on which the Man-
chester delegates were to leave for London, Barton
might be said to hold a lev^e, so many neighbours came
dropping in. Job Legh had early established himself
and his pipe by John Barton's fire, not saying much,
but puflSng away, and imagining himself of use in ad-
justing the smoothing-irons that hung before the fire,
ready for Mary against she should want them. As for
Mary, her employment was the same as that of Beau
Tibbs* wife, " just washing her father's two shirts," in
the pantry back kitchen ; for she was anxious about
his appearance in London. (The coat had been re-
deemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.)
The door stood open, as usual, between the houseplace
and back-kitchen, so she gave her greeting to their
friends as they entered.

" So, John, yo're bound for London, are yo ?" said
onci

A TALE OF HANGHE8TEB LIFE. 133

" Ay, I suppose I mun go," answered John, yield-
ing to necessity as it were.

" Well, there's many a thing I'd like yo to speak on
to the parliament people. Thou'^lt not spare 'em, John,
I hope. Tell 'em our minds ; how we're thinking
we've been clemmed long enough, and we donnot see
whatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give us
what we're all crying for sin' the day we were bom."

" Ay, ay I I'll tell 'em that, and much more to it,
when it gets to my turn ; but thou knows there's many
will have their word afore me."

" "Well, thou'lt speak at last. Bless thee, lad, do
ask 'em to make th' masters break th' machines.
There's never been good times sin' spinning-jennies
came up."

" Machines is th' ruin of poor folk," chimed in several
voices.

" For my part," said a shivering, half-clad man, who
crept near the fire, as if ague-stricken, " I would like
thee to tell 'em to pass th' short-hours' bill. Flesh and
blood gets wearied wi' so much work; why should
factory hands work so much longer nor other trades ?
Just ask 'em that, Barton, will ye ?"

Barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the
entrance of Mrs. Davenport, the poor widow he had
been so kind to ; she looked half-fed, and eager, but
was decently clad. In her hand she brought a little
newspaper parcel, which she took to Mary, who opened
it, and then called out, dangling a shirt collar from her
soapy fingers:

134 MABT BABTOX:

^' See, fiither, what a dandy jou'U be in London !
Mrs. Davenport has brought you this ; made new cu4^
all after the &8hion. — ^Thank you for thinking on him."

" Eh, Mary!" said Mrs. Davenport, in a low voice*
^' Whatten^s all I can do, to what he's done for me and
mine ? But, Mary, sure I can help ye, for you'll be
busy wi' this journey."

'' Just help me wring these out, and then Fll take
'em to th' mangle."

So Mrs. Davenport became a listener to the con-
versation ; and after a while joined in.

" I'm sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages
to the parliament folk, yo'll not object to telling 'ena
what a sore trial it is, this law o' theirs, keeping chil-
der fra' factory work, whether they be weakly or
strong. There's our Ben ; why, porridge seema to go
no way wi' him, he eats so much ; and I han gotten no
money to send him t' school, as I would like ; and
there he is, rampaging about th' streets a' day, getting
hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a' manner o'
bad ways ; and th' inspector won't let him in to work
in.th* factory, because he's not right age ; though he's
twice as strong as Sankey's little ritling* of a lad, as
works tin he cries for.his legs aching so, though he is
right age, and better."

'' I've one plan I wish to tell John Barton," said a
pompous, careful-speaking man, '' and I should like
him for to lay it afore the honourable house. My

* "Ritling," probably a corraption of " ricketling,*' a child that
suffers from the rickets-— a weakling.

A TALE OF KANCHESTEB LIFE. 135

mother oomed out o' Oxfordshire, and were under^
laundiy-maid in Sir Francis Dashwood's family ; and
when we were little ones, she'd tell us stories of their
grandeur ; and one thing she named were, that Sir
Francis wore two shirts a day. Now he were all as
one as a parliament man ; and many on W, I han no
doubty are Hke extravagant. Just tell 'em John, do, that
they'd be doing th' Lancashire weavers a great kind-
n^s, if they'd ha' their shirts a' made o' calico ; 'twould
make trade brisk, that would, wi' the power o' shirts
they wear."

Job Legh now put in his word. Taking the pipe
out of his 'mouth, and addressing the last speaker, he
said:

" Pll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence mind ye;
there's but hundreds of them parliament folk as wear
so many shirts to their back; but there's thousands and
thousands o' poor weavers as han only gotten one shirt
i' th' world; ay, and don't know where t' get another
when that rag's done, though they're turning out miles
o' calico every day; and many a mile o't is lying in
warehouses, stopping up trade for want o' purchasers.
To take my advice, John Barton, and ask Parliament
to set trade &ee, so as workmen can earn a decent wage,
and buy their two, ay and three, slurts a-year; that
would make weaving brisk."

He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled
his puffing to make up for lost lime.

" I'm aieard, neighbours," said John Barton, " Tve
not much chance o' telling em all yo say; what I think

136 HABTBABTON:

on, is just speaking out about the distress, that they
say is nought. When they hear o' children bom on
wet flags, without a rag t* cover 'em, or a bit o' food
for th' mother; when they hear of folk lying down to
die i' th* streets, or hiding their want i' some hole o'
a cellar till death come to set 'em free; and when they
hear o' all this plague, pestilence, and famine, theyll
surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at
now. However, I han no objection, if so be there's an
opening, to speak up for what yo say; anyhow, PU do
my best, and yo see now, if better times don't come
after Parliament knows all."

Some shook their heads, but more looked cheery;
and then one by one dropped off, leaving John and his
daughter alone.

" Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?"
asked he, as they wound up their hard day's work by a
supper eaten over the fire, which glowed and glimmered
through the room, and formed their only light.

" No, I can't say as I did. But she's never rightly
held up her head since the twins died; and all along
she has never been a strong woman."

" Never sin' her accident. Afore that I mind her
looking as fresh and likely a girl as e'er a one in Man-
chester."

'' What accident, father ?"

" She cotched* her side again a wheel. It were afore
wheels were boxed up. It were just when she were to
have been married, and many a one thought George
• "Cotched," caught.

A TALE OF HAKCHESTEB LIFE. 137

would ha' been off his bargain; but I knew he wem't
the chap for that trick. Pretty near the first place she
went to when she were able to go about again, was th'
Oud Church; poor wench j all pale and limping she
went up the aisle, George holding her up as tender ^
a mother, and walking as slow as e*er he could, not to
hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude lads
to cast their jests at him and her. Her face were white
like a sheet when she came in church, but afore she got
to th' altar she were all one flush. But for a' that it's
been a happy marriage, and George has stuck by me
through life like a brother. He'll never hold up his
head again if he loses Jane. I didn't like her looks to<
night."

And so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sor-
row to his friend mingling with his thoughts of to-
morrow, and his hopes for the future. Mary watched
him set ofiT, with her hands over her eyes to shade them
from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and
then she turned into the house to arrange its disorder
before going to her work. She wondered if she should
Kke or dislike the evening and morning solitude; for
several hours when the clock struck she thought of her
fiither, and wondered where he was; she made good re-
solutions according to her lights; and by-and-bye came
the distractions and events of the broad full day to
occupy her with the present, and to deaden the memory
of the absent.

One of Mary's resolutions was, that she would not be
persuaded or induced to see Mr. Harry Carson during

138 3CABT BASTOK :

her iather*s absence. There was something crooked in
her conscience after all; for this veiy resolution seemed
an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him
at any time; and yet she had brought herself to think
her conduct quite innocent and proper, for although
xmknown to her father, and certain, even did he know
it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she esteemed her
love-meetings with Mr. Carson as sure to end in her
father's good and happiness. But now that he was
away, she would do nothing that he would disapprove
of ; no^ not even though it was for his own good in the
end.

Now, amongst Miss Simmonds' young ladies was one,
who had been from the beginning a confidant in Mary's
love affair, made so by Mr. Carson himself. He had
felt the necessity of some third person to carry letters
and messages, and to plead his cause when he was
absent. In a girl named Sally Leadbitter he had found
a willing advocate. She would have been willing to
have embarked in a love-affair herself (especially a
clandestine one), for the mere e2ccitement of the thing ;
but her willingness was strengthened by sundry half-
sovereigns, which from time to time Mr. Carson be-
stowed upon her.

Sally Leadbitter was vulgar*minded to the last de-
gree; never easy unless her talk was of love and lovers;
in her eyes it was an honour to have had a long list of
wooers. So constituted, it was a pity that SaUy herself
was but a plain, red-haired, fceckled, girl; never likely,
one would have thought, to become a heroine on her

A TALE OF MANCHB8TEB LIFE. 139

own aocotmt. But wliat she lacked in beauty she tried
to make up for by a kind of witty boldnesfly which gave
her, what her betters would have called piquancy.
Consideiations of modesty or propriety never checked
her utterance of a good thing. She had just talent
enough to corrupt others. Her very good-nature was
an evil influence. They could not hate one who was so
kind; they could not avoid one who was so willing to
shield them from scrapes by any exertion of her own;
whose ready fingers would at any time make up for
their deficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue
would at any time invent for them. The Jews, or
Mohammedans (I forget which), believe that there is
one little bone of our body, one of the vertebras, if I
remember rightly, which will never decay and turn to
dust, but will lie incorrupt and indestructible in the
ground until the Last Day: this is the Seed of the
SouL The most depraved have also their Seed of the
Holiness that shall one day overcome their evil. Their
one good quality, lurking hidden, but safe, among all
the corrupt and bad.

Sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her
mother, an aged bedridden woman. For her she had
self-denial ; for her, her good-nature rose into tender-
ness ; to cheer her lonely bed, her spirits, in the even-
ings when her body was often woefully tired, never
flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the
day, to turn them into ridicule, and to mimic, with ad-
mirable fidelity, any person gifted with an absurdity
who had fallen under her keen eye. But the mother

140 HABY BABTOK :

was lightly principled like Sally herself ; nor was there
need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson
gave her so much money. She chuckled with pleasure,
and only hoped that the wooing would be long a-doing.

Still neither she, nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson
liked this resolution of Mary, not to see him during
her father's absence.

One evening (and the early summer evenings were
long and bright now), Sally met Mr. Carson by ap-
pointment, to be charged with a letter for Mary, im-
ploring her to see him, which Sally was to back with
all her powers of persuasion. After parting from him
she determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once
to Mary's, and deliver the message and letter.

She found Mary in great sorrow. She had just
heard of George Wilson's sudden death : her old friend,
her father's friend, Jem's father — all his claims came
rushing upon her. Though not guarded from unneces-
sary sight or sound of death, as the children of the rich
are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this
last three or four months. It was so terrible thus to
see friend after friend dej^rt. Her father, too, who
had dreaded Jane Wilson's death the evening before he
set off. And she, the weakly, was left behind while the
strong man was taken. At any rate the sorrow her
father had so feared for him was spared. Such were
the thoughts which came over her.

She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if com-
fort were in her power to give ; for she had resolved to
avoid Jem ; and she felt that this of all others was not

A TALE OF MANGHESTEB LIFE. 141

the occasion on wUcli she could keep up a studiously
cold manner.

And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the
last person she wished to see. However, she rose to
welcome her^ betraying her tear-swollen face.

"Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how
you're fretting for him ; it's no more nor he's doing for
you, I can tell you."

" For him, indeed !" said Mary, with a toss of her
pretty head.

" Ay, miss, for him! You've been sighing as if
your heart would break now for several days, over your
work ; now am't you a little goose not to go and see
one who I am sure loves you as his life, and whom you
love ; * How much, Mary ?' **This much,' as the chil-
dren say" (opening her arms very wide).

" Nonsense," said Mary, pouting; " I often think I
don't love him at all."

" And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see
him?" asked Sally.

" If you like," replied Mary. " I'm sure I don't care
for that or any thing else now ;" weeping afresh.

But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such
news. She saw she had gone on the wrong tack, and
tibat Mary's heart was too full to value either message
or letter as she ought. So she wisely paused in their
delivery, and said in a more sympathetic tone than she
had heretofore used,

" Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so ? You
know I never could abide to see you cry."

142 KABT BABTON :

^^ George Wilson*s dropped down dead this after-
noon," said Mary, fixing her eyes for one minute on
Sally, and the next hiding her face in her apron as she
sobbed anew.

^' Dear, dear ! All flesh is grass ; here to-day and
gone to-morrow, as the Bible says. Still he was an
old man, and not good for much ; there's better folk
than him left behind. Is th' canting old maid as was
his sister alive yet ?"

" I don't know who you mean," said Mary, sharply ;
for she did know, and did not like to have her dear,
simple Alice so spoken of.

*' Come, Mary, don't be so innocent. Is Miss Alice
Wilson alive, then ; will that please you ? I havenH
seen her hereabouts lately."

" No, she's left living here. When the twins died she
thought she could, may be, be of use to her sister, who
was sadly cast down, and Alice thought she could cheer
her up ; at any rate she could listen to her when her
heart grew overburdened ; so she gave up her cellar
and went to live with them."

" Well, good go with her. I'd no fency for her, and
I'd no fancy for her making my pretty Mary into a
Methodee."

" She wasn't a Methodee, she was Church o' England."

*^ Well, well, Mary, you're very particular. You
know what I meant. Look, who is this letter from ?"
holding up Henry Carson's letter.

" I don't know, and don't care," said Mary, turning
very red.

A TALE OF MAKCHSSTEB LIFE. 143

^'My eye! as if I didn't know you did know and did
care."

^'Well, give it me" said Maiy, impatiently, and
anxious in her present mood for her visitor's departure.

Sally xelinquished it unwillingly. She had, however,
the pleasure of seeing Mary dimple and blush as she
read the letter, which seemed to say the writer was not
indifferent to her.

" You must tell him I can't come,** said Mary, raising
her eyes at last. '' I have said I won't meet him while
fether is away, and I won't."

" But Mary, he does so look for you. You*d be
quite sorry for him, he's so put out about not seeing you.
Besides you go when your father's at home, without
letting on* to him, and what harm would there be in
going now?"

" Well, SaUy ! you know my answer, I won't ; and I
wonV

"I'll tell him to come and see you himself some
evening, instead o' sending me ; he'd may be find you not
so hard to deal with."

Mary flashed up.

" If he dares to come here while father's away, I'll
call the neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be put-
ting him up to that."

** Mercy on us ! one would think you were the first
^1 that ever had a lover; have you never heard what
other girls do and think no shame of ?"

• "Letting on," informing. In Anglo-Saxon, one meaning of
** kstan *' was " to admit ;" and we say, to let out a secret.

144 MABY BARTON:

*^ Hush, Sally ! that's Margaret Jennings at the door."

And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary
had begged Job Lcgh to let her come and sleep with
her. In the uncertain fire-light you could not help
noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind
person.

" Well, I must go, Mary,^' said Sally. " And that's
your last word ?"

" Yes, yes ; good-night." She shut the door gladly
on her unwelcome visitor — unwelcome at that time at
least.

*^ Oh Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about
George Wilson ?"

" Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they've been
sore tiied lately. Not that I think sudden death so
bad a thing ; it's easy, and there's no terrors for him as
dies. For them as survives it's very hard. Poor
George ! he were such a hearty looking man."

*' Margaret," said Mary, who had been closely ob-
serving her friend, " thou'rt very blind to-night, artn't
thou? Is it wi' crying? Your eyes are so swollen and
red."

" Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye
heard where I was last night?"

" No ; where ?"

" Look here." She held up a bright golden sove-
reign. Mary opened her large gray eyes with aston-
ishment.

" Pll tell you all how and about it. You see there's a
gentleman lecturing on music at th' Mechanics, and he

A TALE OF SfAKCH£8TEB LIFE. 145

wants folk to sing his songs. Well, last night th' coun-
ter got a sore throat and couldn't make a note. So they
sent for me. Jacob Butterworth had said a good word
for me, and they asked me would I sing ? You may think
I was frightened, but I thought now or never, and said
I'd do my best. So I tried o'er the songs wi' th' lec-
turer, and then th' managers told me I were to make
myself decent and be there by seven."

" And what did you put on ?" asked Mary. " Oh,
why didn't you come in for my pretty pink gingham?"

" I did think on't; but you had na come home then.
No ! I put on my merino, as was turned last winter, and
my white shawl, and did my hair pretty tidy ; it did well
enough. Well, but as I was sajdng, I went at seven.
I couldn't see to read my music, but I took th' paper
in wi' me, to ha* somewhat to do wi' my fingers. Th'
folks' heads danced, as I stood as right afore 'em all as
if I'd been going to play at ball wi' 'em. You may
guess I felt squeamish, but mine weren't the first song,
and th' music sounded like a friend's voice, telling me
to take courage. So to make a long story short, when
it were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th'
managers said as how there never was a new singer so
applauded (for they'd clapped and stamped after I'd
done, till I began to wonder how many pair o' shoes
they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their
hands). So I'm to sing again o' Thursday ; and I got a
sovereign last night, and am to have half-a-sovereign
every night th' lecturer is at th' Mechanics."

VOL. I. - L

146 MART BABTON :

" Well, Margaret, Fm right glad to hear it.**

" And I don't think you've heard the best bit yet.
Now that a way seemed opened to me^ of not being a
burden to any one, though it did please God to make
me blind, I thought Td tell grandfather* I only telled
him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for
I thought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart ;
but this morning I telled him all."

«* And how did he take it ?"

^^ He's not a man of many words ; and it took him
by surprise like."

" I wonder at that ; I've noticed it in your ways
ever since you telled me."

" Ay, that's it ! If Pd not telled you, and you'd
seen me every day, you'd not ha' noticed the little mite
o' difference fra' day to day."

" Well, but what did your grandfether say ?"

" Why, Mary," said Margaret, half smiling, " I'm
a bit loath to tell yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's
ways like me, yo'd think it strange. He were taken
by surprise, and he said : ' Damn yo !' Then he began
looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet,
while I telled him all about it ; how I'd feared, and i

how downcast Pd been ; and how I were now recon- i

ciled to it, if it were th' Lord's will ; and how I hoped j

to earn money by singing ; and while I were talking, I |

saw great big tears come dropping on th' book ; but in
course I never let on that I saw *em. Dear grand-
father! and all day long he's been quietly moving

A TALE OF MANCHEBTEB LITE. 147

things out o' my way, as he thought might trip me
up, and putting things in my way, as he thought I might
want ; never knowing I saw and felt what he were
doing ; for, yo see, he thinks Tm out ana out blind, I
guess — as I shall be soon."

IV^garet sighed, in spite of her cheerful and re-
lieved tone.

Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better
to let it pass without notice, and began, with the tact
which true sympathy rarely fails to supply, to ask a
variety of questions respecting her friend's murical
debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly how
successfiil it had been.

" Why, Margaret," at length she exclaimed, " thou'lt
become as famous, may be, as that grand lady fra'
London, as we seed one night driving up to th' concert
room door in her carriage."

" It looks very like it," said Margaret, with a smile.
** And be sure, Mary, I'll not forget to give thee a lift
now an' then when that comes about. Nay, who
knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but mayhappen I may
make thee my lady's maid ! Wouldn't that be nice ?
So I'll e'en sing to mysel' th' beginning o* one o' my

songs,

* An' ye shall walk in silk attire^
An' siller hae to spare.' "

".Nay, don't stop; or else give me sometlung a bit
more new, for somehow I never quite liked that part
about thinking o' Donald mair.'*

** Well, though I'm a bit tir'd, I don't care if I do. Be-
l2

148 MABY BAKTON:

fore I come, I were practising well nigh upon two hours

this one which I'm to sing o' Thursday. Th' lecturer

said he were sure it would just suit me, and I should do

justice to it ; and I should be right sorry to disappoint

him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me.

Eh ! Mary, what a pity there isn't more o' that^ay,

and less scolding and rating i' th' world ! It would go

a vast deal further. Beside, some o' th' singers said

they were a'most certain it were a song o' his own,

because he were so fidgetty and particular about it, and

so anxious I should give it th' proper expression. And

that makes me care still more. Th' first verse, he said,

were to be sung * tenderly, but joyously !' I'm afraid I

don't quite hit that, but I'll try.

• What a single word can do !
Thrilling all the heart-strings through,
Calling forth fond memories,
Baining round hope's melodies,
Steeping all in one bright hue —
What a single word can do !'

** Now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very

sad like. I feel as if I could do that better than

t'other.

' What a single word can do I
Making life seem all untrue,
Driving joy and hope away.
Leaving not one cheering ray
Blighting every flower that grew —
What a single word can do !' "

Margaret certainly made the most of this little song.
As a factory worker, listening outside, observed, " She

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 149

spun it reet* fine !" And if she only sang it at the
Mechanics' with half the feeling she put into it that
night, the lecturer must have been hard to please, if he
did not admit that his expectations were more than
fulfilled.

When it was ended, Mary's looks told more than
words could have done what she thought of it ; and
partly to keep in a tear which would fain have rolled
out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, ^' for certain,
th' carriage is coming. So let us go and dream on it."

♦ ** Beet," right ; often used for •• very."

150 HAHT BABTON :

CHAPTER IX.

" A life of self-indulgence is for us,

A life of self-denial is for them ;
For us the streets, broad-built and populous,

For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,

And cellars where the water-rat may swim !
For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,

For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim !
Not doomed by us to this appointed pain —
God made us rich and poor— of what do these complain ?"
Mrs. Norton's " Child of thb Islands."

The next evening it was a warm, pattering, inces-
sant rain, just the rain to waken up the flowers. But
in Manchester, where, alas ! there are no flowers, the
rain had only a disheartening and gloomy e&ct ; the
streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses
were wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty.
Indeed, most kept within- doors; and there was an unu-
sual silence of footsteps in the little paved courts.

Mary had to change some clothes after her walk
home; and had hardly settled herself before she heard
some one fumbling at the door. The noise continued

A TALE OF MAKCHBSTEB LIFE. 151

long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open it.
There stood — csould it be ? yes it was, her father I

Drenched and way-worn, there he stood I He came
in with no word to Mary in return for her cheery and
astonished greeting. He sat down by the fire in his
wet things, unheeding. But Mary would not let him so
rest. She ran up and brought down his working-day
clothes, and went into the pantry to rummage up their
little bit of provision while he changed by the fire,
talking all the while as gaily as she could, though her
Other's depression hung like lead on her heart.

For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds', — ^where
the chief talk was of fashions, and dress, and parties to
be given, for which such and such gowns would be
wanted, varied with a slight whispered interlude occa-
sionally about love and lovers, — ^had not heard the poli-
tical news of the day: that Parliament had refused to
listen to the working-men, when they petitioned with all
the force of their rough, imtutored words to be heard
concerning the distress which was riding, like the
Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people ;
which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamp-
ing woe-marks over the land.

When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat in
silence for some time; for Mary wished him to tell her
what oppressed him so, yet durst not ask. In this she
was wise; for when we are heavy laden in our hearts, it
falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in our
own way, and our own time.

Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish

152 MABYBABTOK:

guise, and stole her hand into his^ while his sadness in-
fected her, and she ** caught the trick of grief, and
sighed," she knew not why.

" Mary, we mun speak to our God to hear us, for
man will not hearken; no, not now, when we weep
tears o' blood."

In an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the
details, that so weighed down her father's heart. She
pressed his hand with silent sympathy. She did not
know what to say, and was so a&aid of speaking
wrongly, that she was silent. But when his attitude
had remained imchanged for more than half-an-hour,
his eyes gazing vacantly and fixedly at the fire, no
sound but now and then a deep drawn sigh to break the
weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from the
roof without, Mary could bear it no longer. Any thing
to rouse her father. Even bad news.

"Father, do you know George Wilsons dead?**
(Her hand was suddenly and almost violently com-
pressed.) " He dropped down dead in Oxford Road
y ester morning. It*s very sad, isn't it, father?"

Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her
father's face for sympathy. Still the same fixed look of
despair, not varied by grief for the dead.

" Best for him to die," he said, in a low voice.

This was imbearable. Mary got up under pretence
of going to tell Margaret that she need not come to
sleep with her to-night, but really to ask Job Legh to
come and cheer her father.

She stopped outside their door. Margaret was prac^

A TALE OF HAKCHESTEB LIFE. 153

tising her singing, and through the still night air her
voice rang out like that of an angel*

" Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your
God."

The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on
Mary's heart. She could not interrupt. She stood
listening and " comforted," till the little buzz of conver-
sation again began, and then entered and told her
errand.

Both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly
to ftdfil her request

*• He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job. '' He'll
be a different man to-morrow."

There is no describing the looks and tones that have
power over an aching, heavy laden heart; but in an hour
or so John Barton was talking away as freely as ever,
though all his talk ran, as was natural, on the disap-
pointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope of many.

*' Ay, London's a fine place," said he, " and finer
folk live in it than I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell
on except in th' story-books. They are having their
good things now, that afterwards they may be tor-
mented."

Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus I Does
it haunt the minds of the rich as it does those of the
poor?

'* Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked
Mary, who was sitting at her old post by her father's
knee.

** How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never seed

ones, »s ^^i&st, -we ^«« *^/ ^^gj, wo and t*°'
„ ihey -«« • „ v«t »^" ^, .,>..=. Wf

A TALE OF HANCHE8TEB LIFE. 155

for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th' streets. I
thought by-and-bye we should may be get clear on 'em,
but as th' streets grew wider they grew worse, and at
last we were fairly blocked up at Oxford Street. We
gotten across at last though, and my eyes ! the grand
streets we were in then ! They're sadly puzzled how
to build houses though in London; there'd be an open-
ing for a good steady master-builder there, as know'd
his business. For yo see the houses are many on *em
built without any proper shape for a body to live in;
some on *em they've after thought would fall down, so
they've stuck great ugly pillars out before 'em. And
some on ^em (we thought they must be th' tailor's sign)
had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes
stuck on ^em. I were like a child, I forgot a' my errand
in looking about me. By this it were dinner-time, or
better, as we could tell by th' sun, right above our heads,
and we were dusty and tired, going a step now and a
step then. Well, at last we getten into a street grander
nor all, leading to th' Queen's palace, and there it were
I thought I saw th' Queen. Yo've seen th' hearses
wi' white plumes. Job?*'

Job assented.

" Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty
trade in London. Welhiigh every lady we saw in a
carriage had hired one o' them plumes for the day, and
had it niddle noddling on her head. It were th' Queen's
drawing-room, they said, and th' carriages went bowling
along toward her house, some wi* dressed up gentlemen

156 MART BARTON:

like circus folk in *em, and rucks* o' ladies in others.
Carriages themselves were great shakes too. Some o*
th* gentlemen as couldn't get inside hung on behind,
wi' nosegays to smell at^ and sticks to keep off folk as
might splash their silk stockings. I wondered why they
didn't hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-be-
hind boy; but I suppose they wished to keep wi' their
wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were little
squat men, wi' wigs like th' oud fashioned parsons.
WeU, we could na get on for these carriages, though we
waited and waited. Th' horses were too fat to move
quick; they'n never known want o' food, one might tell
by their sleek coats ; and poUce pushed us back when
we tried to cross. One or two on 'em struck wi' their
sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as
stood nigh put their spy-glasses in their eye, and left
'em sticking there like mountebanks. One o^ th' police
struck me. ' Whatten business have yo to do that?
said I.

" * You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his
mincing way (for Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied,
and can't say their a's and i's properly), ' and it's our
business to keep you from molesting the ladies and gen-
tlemen going to her Majesty's drawing-room.'

*^ ' And why are we to be molested,' asked I, * going
decently about our business, which is life and death to
us, and many a little one clemming at home in Lan-
cashire? Which business is of most consequence i' the
• " Rucks,'* a great quantity.

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 157

right o' God, think yo*, our'n or them gran ladies and
gentlemen asyo think so much on?'

" But I might as well ha* held my peace, for he only
laughed."

John ceased. After waiting a little to see if he
would go on of himself. Job said,

" Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us
what happened when yo got to th' Parliament House."

After a little pause John answered,

" If yo please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought
about that. It's not to be forgotten or forgiven either
by me or many another; but I canna tell of our down-
casting just as a piece of London news. As long as I
live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart ; and
as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused
to hear us; but 1*11 not speak of it no* more."

So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few
minutes.

Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else
all the good they had done in dispelling John Barton's
gloom was lost. So after awhile he thought of a sub-
ject, neither sufficiently dissonant from the last to jar on
the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish the
continuance of the gloomy train of thought.

" Did you ever hear tell,*' said he to Mary, " that I
were in London once?"

* A similar use of a double negative is not unfrequent in Chaucer ;
as in the <* Miller's Tale" :

** That of no wife toke fie non offering
For curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non."

158 martbabton:

'^ No !" said she, with surprise, and looking at Job
with increased respect.

" Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too,
though she minds nought about it, poor wench ! You
must know I had but one child, and she were Mar-
garet's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day
when she came (standing behind me for that I should
not see her blushes, and stroking my cheeks in her own
coaxing way), and told me she and Frank Jennings
(as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if
they were married, I could not find in my heart t' say
her nay, though I went sick at the thought of losing
her away from my home. Howe'er, she were my only
child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for fear
o* grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o*
the time when Fd been young mysel, and had loved
her blessed mother, and how we'd left father and
mother and gone out into th' world together, and Pm
now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret her
wi** telling her how sore I was at parting wi* her that
were the light o' my eyes."

" But," said Mary, " you said the young man were
a neighbour."

** Ay, so he were ; and his father afore him. But
work were rather slack in Manchester, and Frank's
uncle sent him word o' London work and London
wages, so he were to go there ; and it were there Mar-
garet was to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at
thought of those days. She so happy, and he so

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 159

happy ; only the poor fiither as fretted sadly behind their
backs. They were married, and stayed some days wi*
me afore setting off; and Pve often thought sin*
Margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days,
and she would fain ha' spoken ; but I knew fira' mysel
it were better to keep it pent up, and I never let on
what I were feeling ; I knew what she meant when she
came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old
childish ways o' loving me. Well, they went at last.
You know them two letters, Margaret?"

** Yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter.

" Well, them two were the only letters I ever had
fra' her, poor lass. She said in them she were very
happy, and I believe she were. And Frank's family
heard he were in good work. In one o' her letters,
poor thing, she ends wi' saying, * Farewell, Grandad V
wi' a line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other
hints I knew she were in th' family way ; and I said
nought, but I screwed up a little money, thinking come
Whitsuntide Fd take a holiday and go and see her an'
th' little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide comed
Jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, * I hear our
Frank and your Margaret's both getten the fever.'
You might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw, for it
seemed as if God told me what th' upshot would be.
Old Jennings had gotten a letter yo see, fra' the land-
lady they lodged wi' ; a well-penned letter, asking if
they'd no friends to come and nurse them. She'd
caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o' her as
her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd

160 MABY BABTON :

caught it himsel ; and she expecting her down-lying*
every day. Well, t* make a long story short, Old
Jennings and I went up by that night's coach. So you
see, Mary, that was the way I got to London."

" But how was your daughter when you got there?'
asked Mary, anxiously.

" She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank.
I guessed as much when I see'd th' landlady's face, all
swelled wi' crying, when she opened th' door to us.
We said, * Where are they 7 and I knew they were
dead, fra' her look ; but Jennings didn't, as I take it ;
for when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet
on th' bed, and underneath it, plain to be seen, two
still figures, he screeched out as if he'd been a woman.

" Yet he'd other childer and I'd none. There lay
my darhng, my only one. She were dead, and there
were no one to love me, no not one. I disrememberf
rightly what I did ; but I know I were very quiet,
while my heart were crushed within me.

" Jennings could na' stand being in th' room at all,
so tV landlady took him down, and I were glad to be
alone. It grew dark while I sat there ; and at last th'
landlady come up again, and said, * Come here.' So I
got up and walked into th' light, but I had to hold by
th* stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me
into a room, where Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep,
wi' his pocket handkercher over his head for a night-
cap. She said he'd cried himself fairly off to sleep.

* " Down -lying,** lying-in.
f ** Disremember," forget.

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 161

There were tea on th' table all ready ; for she were a
kind-hearted body. But she still said, * Come here,'
and took hold o' my arm. So I went round the table
and there were a clothes-basket by th' fire, wi* a shawt
put o'er it. * Lift that up,' says she, and I did ; and
there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. My heart gave-
a leap, and th' tears corned rushing into my eyes first
time that day. *Is it her's?' said I, though I knew
it were. *Yes,' said she. * She were getting a bit
better o' the fever, and th' babby were born ; and then^
the poor young man took worse and died, and she were
not many hours behind.'

"Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her
angel come back to comfort me. I were quite jealous
o' Jennings, whenever he went near the babby. I
thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n,
and yet I were afeared he would claim it. However,
that were far enough fra' his thoughts ; he'd plenty
other childer, and as I found out at after he'd all along-
been wishing me to take it. Well, we buried Mar*
garet and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely
churchyard in London. I were loath to leave them
there, as I thought, when they rose again, they'd feel
so strange at first away fra Manchester, and all old
friends ; but it couldna be helped. Well, God watches
o'er their grave there as well as here. That funeral
cost a mint o' money, but Jennings and I wished to do
th' thing decent. Then we'd the stout little babby to
bring home. We'd not overmuch money left ; but it
were fine weather, and we thought we'd take th' coach

VOL. 1. M

162 MART BARTON :

to Brummagem, and walk on. It were a bright May
morning when last I saw London town, looking back
from a big hill a mile or two off. And in that big
mass o' a place I were leaving my blessed child asleep
— in her last sleep. Well, God's will be done ! She's
gotten to heaven afore me ; but I shall get there at
last, please God, though it's a long while first.

" The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th'
coach moving kept it asleep, bless it's little heart. But
when th* coach stopped for dinner it were awake, and
crying for its pobbies.* So we asked for some bread
and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it ; but
it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at
each o' th' four corners. ' Shake it, Jennings/ says I ;

* that's the way they make water run through a funnel,
when it's o'er full ; and a child's mouth is broad end o'
th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.' So he shook
it, but it only cried th' more. * Let me have it,' says I,
thinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were
just as bad wi' me. By shaking th' babby we got
better nor a gill into its mouth, but more nor that
came up again, wetting a' tV nice dry clothes landlady
had put on. Well, just as we'd gotten to th' dinner-
table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came
in th' guard, and a fine chap wi' a sample o' calico flou-
rishing in his hand. * Coach is ready !' says one ;

* Half-a-crown your dinner !' says th' other. Well, we
thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we'd
hardly tasted 'em ; but, bless your life, it were haif-a-

• « P6bbies,''or " pobs," child's porridge.

A TALE OF MANCH£ST£B LIFE. 163

erown apiece, and a shilling for tli' bread and milk as
were possetted all over babby's clothes. We spoke up
again* it; but every body said it were the rule, go what
could two poor oud chaps like us do again it ? Well,
poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra'
that time till we got to Brummagem for the night.
My heart ached for th* little thing. It caught wi' it's
wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when
we tried t* comfort it by talking to it. Poor little
wench ! It wanted it's mammy, as were lying cold in
th' grave, * Well,* says I, * it'U be clemmed to death,
if it lets out it's supper as it did it's dinner. Let's get
some woman to feed it ; it comes natural to women to
do for babbies. So we asked th' chamber-maid at the
inn, and she took quite kindly to it ; and we got a
good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th'
warmth, and wi' our long ride in th' open air, Th'
chamber-maid said she would like t' have it to sleep wi'
her, only ndssis would scold so ; but it looked so
quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we
thought 'twould be no trouble to have itwi' us. I
says : ' See, Jennings, how women-folk do quieten
babbies ; it^s just as I said.' He looked grave ; he
were always thoughtful-looking, though I never heard
him say any thing very deep. At last says he —

" * Young woman! have you gotten a spare night-
cap?'

* ** Again," for against. << He that is not with me, he is ageyn
m2

164 MABT BABTON :

" * Missis always keeps night-caps for gentlemen as
does not like to unpack,' says she, rather quick.

*' * Ay, but young woman, it's one of your night-caps
I want. Th' babby seems to have taken a mind to yo;
and may be in th' dark it might take me for yo if I'd
getten your night-cap on.'

" The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I
laughed outright at tV oud bearded chap thinking he'd
make hissel like a woman just by putting on a woman's
cap. Howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't, so I held th'
babby till he were in bed. Such a night as we had
on it ? Babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and
we took it turn and turn about to sit up and rock it.
My heart were very sore for th' little one, as it groped
about wi' its mouth; but for a' that I could scarce keep
fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps, th' one
wi' a woman's night-cap on, sitting on our hinder ends
for half th' night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be
hushabied. Toward morning, poor little wench ! it fell
asleep, fairly tired out wi' crying, but even in it's sleep
it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra' the very
bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I almost
wished it lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever.
Jennings fell asleep too ; but I began for to reckon up our
money. It were little enough we had left, our dinner
the day afore had ta'en so much. I didn't know what
our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and
supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum alway sent me
asleep ever sin' I were a lad ; so I fell sound, in a short

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 165

time, and were only wakened by chambermaid tapping
at tb' door, to say she*d dress the babby afore her mis-
sis were up if we liked. But bless yo', we'd never
thought o* undressing it th' night afore, and now it
were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o' the
peace and quietness, that we thought it were no good*to
waken it up to screech again.

" Well ! (there's Mary asleep for a good listener !) I
suppose you're getting weary of my tale, so I'll not
be long over ending it. Tli' reckoning left us very
bare, and we thought we'd best walk home, for it were
only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for
nought, save victuals. So we left Brummagem, (which
is as black a place as Manchester, without looking so
like home), and walked a' that day, carrying babby
turn and turn about. It were well fed by chambermaid
afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to
have some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking,
and we were more cheery at thoughts o' home (though
mine, God knows, were lonesome enough). We stop-
ped none for dinner, but at baggin-time* we getten a
good meal at a public-house, and fed th* babby as
well as we could, but that were but poorly. We got a
crust too, for it to suck — chambermaid put us up to
that. . That night, whether we were tired or whatten, I
don't know, but it were dreef work, and poor wench
had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore my
heart out again. Says Jennings, says he,

* •* Baggin-time/' time of the eveniDg meal.
t " Dree," long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, " dreogan," to suffer,
to endure.

166 MABY BABTON :

** * We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top
o' the coach yesterday.'

** * Nay, lad ! We should ha' had more to walk, if we
had na ridden, and I'm sure both you and I'se* weary
o' tramping/

" So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o' them
as were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss,
when there were no going back to undo it. So pre-
sently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and I
says to mysel, ' At it again, my lad.' Says he,

*^ *I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would
ha* been better for my son if he had never begun to
keep company wi' your daughter.'

" Well ! that put me up, and my heart got very full,
and but that I were carrying her babby, I think I
should ha' struck him. At last I could hold in no
longer, and says I,

" ' Better say at once it would ha' been better for God
never to ha' made th* world, for then we'd never ha' been
in it, to have had th' heavy hearts we have now.'

*'Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I
thought his way of casting up again th' events God had
pleased to send, were worse blasphemy. However, I
said nought more angry, for th* little babby's sake, as
were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my dead
daughter.

" Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night
came to an end at last ; and we were foot-sore and

• "I have not been, nor m, nor never schal.** — WickUffe'a
** Apology,** p. I.

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 167

tiled enough, and to my mind th' babby were getting
weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its
Ettle wail; Fd ha* given my right hand for one of yes-
terday's hearty cries. We were wanting our break-
&st8, and so were it too, motherless babby I We could
see no public-house, so about six o'clock (only we
thought it were later), we stopped at a cottage where a
woman were moving about near th' open door. Says
I, * Good woman, may we rest us a bit?* * Come
in,' says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright enough
afore, wither apron. It were a cheery, clean room;
and we were glad to sit down again, though I thought
my legs would never bend at th' knees. In a minute
she fell a noticing th' babby, and took it in her arms,
and kissed it again and again. ' Missis,' says I,
* we're not without money, and if yo'd give us some-
what for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would
wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies
down its throat, for its well-nigh clemmed, I'd pray for
yo' till my dying day.' So she said nought, but gived
me th' babby back, and afore yo' could say Jack
Bobinson, she'd a pan on th' fire, and bread and cheese
on th' table. When she turned round, her face looked
red, and her lips were tight pressed together. Well!
we were right down glad on our breakfast, and God
bless and reward that woman for her kindness that day;
she fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke
to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha'
done. It seemed as if that stranger and it had known
each other afore, maybe in Heaven, where folk's

X68 MARY BARTON T

spirits come from they say; th' babby looked up so-
lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like
a dove than ought else. Then she undressed it (poor
darling I it were time), touching it so softly ; and washed
it from head to foot, and as many on its things were
dirty; and what bits o' things it's mother had gotten
ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra London, she
put 'em aside ; and wrapping little naked babby in her
apron, she puUed out a key, as were fastened to a black
ribbon, and hung down her breast, and unlocked a
drawer in th' dresser. I were sorry to be pr3ring, but I
could na' help seeing in that drawer some little child's
clothes, all strewed wi' lavendar, and lying by 'em a
little whip an' a broken rattle. I began to have an in-
sight into that woman's heart then. She took out a thing
or two; and locked the drawer, and went on dressing
babby. Just about then come her husband down, a
great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though it
were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said
down-stairs, as were plain to be seen ; but he were a
gruff chap. We'd finished our breakfast, and Jennings
were looking hard at th' woman as she were getting the
babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking way. At length
says he, * I ha learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits and
a shake, two jiggits and a shake. I can get that babby
asleep now mysel.'

'* The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had
gone to th' door, and stood there whistling wi' his hands
in his breeches-pockets, looking abroad. But at last he
turns and says, quite sharp,

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 169

*^ ' I say, missis, I*m to have no breakfast to-day, I
'spose.'

'^ So wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss;
and looking in mj face to see if I could take her mean-
ing, gave me th' babby without a word. I were loath to
stir, but I saw it were better to go. So giving Jen-
nings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I says,
' Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a
jingle that she might na guess we were at all bare o'
cash. So she looks at her husband, who said ne'er a
word, but were listening wi' all his ears nevertheless ;
and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating,
as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, * Should you
ihink sixpence over much?' It were so difierent to
public-house reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal
afore the chap came down. So says I, * And, missis,
what should we gie you for the babby's bread and
milk?' (I had it once in my mind to say * and for a'
your trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me
say it, for I could read in her ways how it had been a
work o' love.) So says she, quite quick, and stealing a
look at her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a
back did, ' Oh, wef* could take nought for the little
babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.'
Wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling look I She
knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor
to him, and put her hand on his arm. He seem'd as
though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but
she said quite low, * For poor little Johnnie's sake,
Richard.' He did not move or speak again, and after

170 HABTBABTOX:

looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swal-
lowing deep in her throat. She kissed th' sleeping babby
as she passed, when I paid her. To quieten th' gruff
husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na help
lipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we
set off again. Last look I had o' that woman she were
quietly wiping her eyes wi' the comer of her apron, as
she went about her husband's breakfast. But I shall
know her in heaven."

He stopped to think of that long-ago May morning,
when he had carried his grand-daughter under the distant
hedge-rows and beneath the flowering sycamores.

** There's nought more to say, wench," said he to
Margaret, as she begged him to go on. " That night
we reached Manchester, and I'd found out that Jennings
would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so I took
her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me."

They were all silent for a few minutes; each following
out the current of their thoughts. Then, almost simul-
taneously, their attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on
her little stool, her head resting on her father's knee,
and sleeping as soundly as any infant, her breath (still
like an infant's) came and went%s softly as a bird
steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as
scarlet as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with
the clear paleness of her complexion, where the elo-
quent blood flushed carnation at each emotion. Her
black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was
still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that
seemed to form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay.

A TALE 07 HANCHESTEB LIFE. 171

Her father in fond pride straightened one glossy curl,

for an instant, as if to display its length and Bilkiness.

The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten

people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening

her eyes to their fullest extent,

" I'm not asleep. Pve been awake all the time."
Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job

Legh and Margaret laughed outright.
I " Come, wench/' said Job, " don't look so gloppened*

I because thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me

I was talking on oud times. It were like enough to send

I thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep thine eyes open

i while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by

a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he
I who could weave verse like this."

! So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin,

crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he
! read aloud a little poem of Samuel Bamford^sf he had

picked up somewhere.

God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,

Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.
God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,

And meekly her affiction doth endure;
God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,
All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands;
Her sunken eyes are modestly down-cast.
Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed.
And oh ! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;

* ** Gloppened," amazed, frightened.

t The fine-spirited author of "Passages in the Life of a Eadical"
—a man who illustrates his order,- and shows what nobility may be
in a cottage.

172 MARY BARTON :

Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,
God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn I

God help the poor !

God help the poor ! An infant's feeble wail .

Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold !
A female crouching there, so deathly pale,

Huddlmg her child, to screen it from the cold ;
Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn ;

A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold :
And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of mom.

Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.
And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look,
As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook;
And, as the tempting load is onward borne.
She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn I

God help the poor !

God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad,

No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect ;
With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad.

He wanders onward, stopping to inspect
Each window, stored with articles of food.

He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal ;
01^! to the hungry palate, viands rude.

Would yield a zest the famished only feel !
He now devours a crust of mouldy bread ;

With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn ;
Unmindful of the storm that round his head

Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn t

God help the poor !

God help the poor ! Another have I found—

A bowed and venerable man is he ;
His slouched hat with faded crape is bound ;

His coat is gray, and threadbare too, I see.
" The rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair ;"
His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.
Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye.

And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray;
And looks around, as if he fain would spy

Friends he had feasted in his better day :

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 173

Ah! some are dead ; and some hare long forborne
To know the poor ; and he is left forlorn !

God help the poor I

God help the poor, who m lone TaUeys dwell.
Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow;

Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell.
Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know
About the toil and want men undergo.

The wearying loom doth call them up at mom,
They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep,
They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep
Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door ;
The night- storm howls a dirge across the moor ;

And shall they perish thus<-oppressed and lorn ?

Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne ?
No ! God will yet arise, and help the poor.

"Amen I" said Barton, solemnly, and sorrowfully.
" Mary! wench, couldst tliee copy me them lines,
dost think ? — that's to say, if Job there has no objec-
tion."

"Not I. More they're heard and read and the
better, say I."

So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on the
blank half sheet of a valentine, all bordered with hearts
and darts — a valentine she had once suspected to come
from Jem Wilson — she copied Bamford's beautifid little
poem.

174 HABT BABTOK :

CHAPTER X.

** My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled
With gloating on the ills I cannot cure."

Elliott.
" Then guard and shield her innocence,
Let her not fall like me ;
'Twere hetter, Oh ! a thousand times.
She in her grave should he."

Despair settled down like a heavy cloud ; and now
and then, through the dead calm of sufferings, came
pipings of stormy winds, foretelling the end of these dark
prognostics. In times of sorrowful or fierce endufance,
we are often soothed by the mere repetition of old pro-
verbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but
now, " it's a long lane that has no turning," " the wear-
iest day draws to an end," &c., seemed false and vain
sayings, so long and so weary was the pressure of the
terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the poor;
it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill
men, that so few (in comparison) died during those times.
But remember ! we only miss those who do men's work
in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the chil-

A TALE OF UANCHESTEB LIFE. 175

dren, when they die, are hardly noted by the world;
and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank
which long years will never fill up. Remember, too,
that though it may take much sufiering to kill the able-
bodied and effective members of society, it does not take
miich to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures,
who thenceforward crawl through life with moody
hearts and pain-stricken bodies.

The people had thought the poverty of the preceding
years hard to bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but
this year added sorely to its weight. Former times
had chastised them with whips, but this chastised them
with scorpions.

Of course. Barton had his share of mere bodily
sufierings. Before he had gone up to London on his
vain errand, he had been working short time. But in
the hopes of speedy redress by means of the interference
of Parliament, he had thrown up his place ; and now,
when he asked leave to resume work, he was told they
were diminishing their number of hands every week,
and he was made aware by the remarks of fellow work-
men, that a Chartist delegate, and a leading member of
a Trades' Union, was not likely to be favoured in his
search after employment. Still he tried to keep up a
brave heart concerning himself. He knew he could
bear hunger ; for that power of endurance had been
called forth when he was a little child, and had seen his
mother hide her daily morsel to share it among her
children, and when he, being the eldest, had told the
noble lie, that " he was not hungry, could not eat a bit

176 MARY BABTON :

more," in order to imitate liis mother's bravery, and
still the sharp wail of the younger infants. Mary, too,
was secure of two meals a day at Miss Simmonds*;
though, by the way, the dress-maker, too, feeling the
effect of bad times, had left oflfgiving tea to her appren-
tices, setting them the example of long abstinence by
putting oflf her own meal until work was done for the
night, however late that might be.

But the rent ! It was half-a-crown a week — nearly
all Mary's earnings — and much less room might do for
them, only two. — (Now came the time to be thankful
that the early dead were saved from the evil to come.) —
The agricultural labourer generally has strong local
attachments; but they are far less common, almost ob-
literated, among the inhabitants of a town. Still there are
exceptions, and Barton formed one. He had removed
to his present house just after the last bad times, when
little Tom had sickened and died. He had then thought
the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned
wife something to do, and he had taken more interest
in the details of the proceeding than he otherwise would
have done, in the hope of calling her forth to action
again. So he seemed to know every brass-headed nail,
driven up for her convenience. One only had been
displaced. It was Esther's bonnet nail, which, in his
deep revengeful anger against her, after his wife's death,
he had torn out of the wall, and cast into the street. It
would be hard work to leave that house, which yet
seemed hallowed by his wife's presence in the happy
days of old. But he was a law unto himself, though

A TALE OF MANGHESTEB LIFE. 177

sometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give
the rent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper
abode, and tell Mary they must flit. Poor Mary ! she
loved the house, too. It was wrenching up ber natural
feelings of home, for it would be long before the fibres
of her heart would gather themselves about another
place.

This trial was spared. The collector (of himself), on
the very Monday when Barton planned to give him
notice of his intention to leave, lowered the rent three-
pence a week; just enough to make Barton compromise
and agree to stay on a little longer.

But by degrees the house was stripped of its little
ornaments. Some were broken ; and the odd twopences
and threepences wanted to pay for their repairs, were re-
quired for the far sterner necessity of food. And by-and-
bye Mary began to part with other superfluities at the
pawn-shop. The smart tea-tray, and tea-caddy, long
and carefully kept, went for bread for her father. He
did not ask for it, or complain, but she saw hunger in
his shrunk, flerce, animal look. Then the blankets went,
for it was summer time, and they could spare them; and
their sale made a fund, which Mary fancied would last
till better times came. But it was soon all gone; and
then she looked around the room to crib it of its few re-
maining ornaments. To all these proceedings her
father said never a word. If he fasted, or feasted (after
the sale of some article), on an unusual meal of bread
and cheese, he took all with a sullen indifierence, which
depressed Mary's heart. She often wished he would

VOL. I. N

178 MAST BABTON :

apply for relief from the Ghiardian's relieving office;
often wondered the Trades' Union did nothing for
him. Once when she asked him as he sat, grimed, un-
shaven, and gaunt, after a day's fasting over the fire,
why he did not get relief from the town, he turned
round, with grim wrath, and said, " I don't want money,
child ! D — n their charity and their money ! I want
work, and it is my right. I want work."

He would bear it all, he said to himself. And he did
bear it, but not meekly; that was too much to expect.
Real meekness of character is called out by experience of
kindness. And few had been kind to him. Yet
through it all, with stem determination he refused
the assistance his Trades' Union would have given him.
It had not much to give, but with worldly wisdom,
thought it better to propitiate an active, useful member,
than to help those who were unenergetic, though they
had large families to provide for. Not so thought John
Barton. With him need was right.

" Give it to Tom Darbyshire," he said. '* He's more
claim on it than me, for he's more need of it, with
his seven children."

Now Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling
way, a backbiting enemy of John Barton'^s. And he
knew it ; but he was not to be. influenced by that in a
matter like this.

Mary went early to her work ; but her cheery laugh
over it was now missed by the other girls. Her mind
wandered over the present distress, and then settled, as
she stitched, on the visions of the future, where yet her

A TALE OF KAKCHXSTEB LIFE. 179

thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of ease, and
the pomps and vanities awaiting her^ than on the lover
with whom she was to share them. Still she was not
insensible to the pride of having attracted one so &r
above herself in station ; not insensible to the secret
pleasure of knowing that he, whom so many admired^
had often said hfe would give any thing for one of her
sweet smiles. Her love for him was a bubble, blown
out of vanity ; but it looked very real and very bright.
Sally Leadbitter, meanwhile, keenly observed the signs
of the times ; she found out that Mary had begun to
aflSx a stem value to money as the " Purchaser of Life,"
and many girls had been dazzled and lured by gold, even
without the betraying love which she believed to exist in
Mary's heart. So she urged young Mr. Carson, by re-
presentations of the want she was sure surrounded Mary,
to bring matters more to a point. But he had a kind of
instinctive dread of hurting Mary's pride of spirit, and
durst not hint his knowledge in any way of the distress
that many must be enduring. He felt that for the
present he must still be content with stolen meetings
and summer evening strolls, and the delight of pouring
sweet honeyed words into her ear, while she hstened with
a blush and a smile that made her look radiant with
beauty. No, he would be cautious in order to be cer-
tain ; for Mary, one way or another, he must make his.
He had no doubt of the effect of his own personal
charms in the long run ; for he knew he was handsome,
and believed himself fascinating.
K he had known what Mary^s home was, he would not
n2

180 MAEY BABTON :

have been so much convinced of his increasing influence
over her, by her being more and more ready to linger
with him in the sweet summer air. For when she re-
turned for the night her father was often out, and the
house wanted the cheerful look it had had in the days
when money was never wanted to purchase soap and
brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. It was dingy and
comfortless ; for, of course, there was not even the dumb
familiar home-friend, a fire. And Margaret, too, was
now so often from home, singing at some of those grand
places. And Alice ; oh, Mary wished she had never
left her cellar to go and live at Ancoats with her sister-
in-law. For in that matter Mary felt very guilty ; she
had put off and put off going to see the widow after
George Wilson's death from dread of meeting Jem, or
giving him reason to think she wished to be as inti-
mate with him as formerly ; and now she was so much
ashamed of her delay that she was likely never to go
at all.

If her father was at home it was no better ; indeed
it was worse. He seldom spoke, less than ever ; and
often when he did speak they were sharp angry
words, such as he had never given her formerly.
Her temper was high, too, and her answers not over-
mild ; and once in his passion he had even beaten
her. If Sally Leadbitter or Mr. Carson had been at
hand at that moment, Mary would have been ready
to leave home for ever. She sat alone, after her
father had flung out of the house, bitterly thinking
on the days that were gone; angry with her own

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 181

hastiness, and believing that her father did not love
her ; striving to heap up one painftd thought on
another. Who cared for her ? Mr. Carson might,
but in this grief that seemed no comfort. Mother
dead ! Father so often angry, so lately cruel (for it was a
bard blow, and blistered and reddened Mary's soft white
skin with pain) : and then her heart turned round, and
she remembered with self-reproach how provokingly
she had looked and spoken, and how much her father
had to bear ; and oh, what a kind and loving parent
he had been, till these days of trial. The remembrance
of one little instance of his fatherly love thronged after
another into her mind, and she began to wonder how
she could have behaved to him as she had done.

Then he came home ; and but for very shame she
would have confessed her penitence in words. But she
looked sullen, from her effort to keep dovm emotion ;
and for some time her father did not know how to
begin to speak. At length he gulped down pride, and
^aid :

•* Mary, I'm not above saying I'm very sorry I beat
thee. Thou wert a bit aggravating, and I'm not the
man I was. But it were wrong, and I'll try never to
lay hands on thee again."

So he held out his arms, and in many tears she told
him her repentance for her fault. He never struck her
again.

Still, he often was angry. But that was almost better
than being silent. Then he sat near the fire-place
(from habit), smoking, or chewing opium. Oh, how

182 MABY BARTON:

Mary loathed that smell ! And in the dusk, just before
it merged into the short summer night, she had learned
to look with dread towards the window, which now
her father would have kept uncurtained ; for there
were not seldom seen sights which haunted her in her
dreams. Strange faces of pale men, with dark glaring
eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and seemed de-
sirous to ascertain if her father were at home. Or a
hand and arm (the body hidden) was put within the
door, and beckoned him away. He always went. And
once or twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men's
voices below, in earnest, whispered talk.

They were all desperate members of Trades' Unions,
ready for any thing ; made ready by want.

While all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and
heavy on Mary's heart, her father startled her out of a
reverie one evening, by asking her when she had been
to see Jane Wilson. From his manner of speaking, she
was made aware that he had been ; but at the time of his
visit he had never mentioned any thing about it. Now,
however, he gruffly told her to go next day without
fail, and added some abuse of her for not having been
before. The little outward impulse of her father's
speech gave Mary the push, which she, in this in--
stance, required ; and, accordingly, timing her visit so
as to avoid Jem's hours at home, she went the follow-
ing afternoon to Ancoats.

The outside of the well-known house struck her as
different ; for the door was closed, instead of open, as
it once had always stood. The window-plants, George

A TALE OF HAirCHESTEB LIFE.

Wilson's pride and especial care, looked withering and
drooping. They had been without water for a long
time, and now, when the widow had reproached herself
severely for neglect, in her ignorant anxiety, she gave
them too much. On opening the door, Alice was
seen, not stirring about in her habitual way, but knit-
ting by the fire-side. The room felt hot, although the
fire burnt gray and dim, under the bright rays of the
afternoon sun. Mrs. Wilson was " siding"* the dinner
things, and talking all the time, in a kind of whining,
shouting voice, which Mary did not at first understand.
She understood at once, however, that her absence had
been noted, and talked over ; she saw a constrained
look on Mrs. Wilson's sorrow-stricken face, which told
her a scolding was tc^come.

"Dear Mary, is that you?" she began. "Why,
who would ha' dreamt of seeing you! We thought
you'd clean forgotten us ; and Jem has often wondered
if he should know you, if he met you in the street."

Now, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried ; and
at present her trials had had no outward efiect, but
that of increased acerbity of temper. She wished to
show Mary how much she was offended, and meant to
strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp
speeches into Jem's mouth*

Mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as
an apology; so for a minute she stood silent, looking
very inuch ashamed, and then turned to speak to aunt

• To " side,** to put aside, or in order.

184 MART BARTON :

Alice, who, in her surprised, hearty greeting to Mary,
had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy trying
to set the thread to rights, before the kitten had entan*
gled it past redemption, once round every chair, and
twice round the table.

*' You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her
to hear ; she become as deaf as a post this last few
weeks. I'd ha' told you, if I'd remembered how long
it were sin' youM seen her."

*' Yes, my dear, Pm getting very hard o' hearing of
late," said Alice, catching the state of the case, with
her quick-glancing eyes. *• I suppose it's the beginning
of tV end."

** Don't talk b' that way," screamed her sister-in-law.
" We have had enow of ends and deaths without fore^
casting more." She covered her face with her apron,
and sat down to cry.

" He was such a good husband,*^ said she, in a less
excited tone, to Mary, as she looked up with tear-stream-
ing eyes from "behind her apron. "No one can tell
what I've lost in him, for no one knew his worth like
me.

Mary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went
on to unburden her heavy laden heart.

"Eh, dear, dear! No one knows what I've lost.
When my poor boys went, I thought th' Almighty had
crushed me to th' ground, but I never thought o' losing
George; I did na think I could ha* borne to ha' lived
without him. And yet I'm here, and heV — A fresh
burst of crying interrupted her speech.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 185

"Mary," — ^beginning to speak again, — "did you ever
hear what a poor creature I were when he married me?
And he such a handsome feUow! Jem's nothing to
what his fether were at his age."

Yes ! Mary had heard, and so she said. But the
poor woman'^s thoughts had gone back to those days,
and her little recollections came out, with many inter-
ruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head.

<« There were nought about me for him to choose me.
I were just well enough afore that accident, but at after
I were downright plain. And there was Bessy Witter
as would ha* given her eyes for him ; she as is Mrs.
Carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although I
never could see her beauty then; and Carson wam't so
much above her, as they're both above us all now."

Mary went very red, and wished she could help doing
so, and wished also that Mrs. Wilson would tell her
more about the father and mother of her lover; but she
durst not ask, and Mrs. Wilson's thoughts soon returned
to her husband, and their early married days.

" K you'll believe me, Mary, there never was such
a bom goose at house-keeping as I were ; and yet he
married me ! I had been in a factory sin' five years old
a'most^ and I knew nought about cleaning, or cooking,
let alone washing and such-like work. The day after we
were married he goes to his work at after breakfast, and
says he, * Jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes,
and that's a dinner fit for a prince.' I were anxious to
make him comfortable, God knows how amdous. And

186 MART BABTON :

yet I*d no notion how to cook a potato. I know'd
they were boiled, and I know*d their skins were taken
off, and that were all. So I tidyed my house in a rough
kind o^ way, and then I looked at that very clock up
yonder," pointing at one that hung against the wall,
"and I seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks I, th'
potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets them
on the fire in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as I could
peel them, which were a tough job at first), and then I
fell to unpacking my boxes! and at twenty minutes
past twelve he comes home, and I had th' beef ready on
th' table, and I went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot ;
but oh ! Mary, the water had boiled away, and they
were all a nasty brown mass, as smelt through all the
house. He said nought, and were very gentle ; but, oh,
Mary, I cried so that afternoon. I shall ne'er forget it;
no, never. I made many a blunder at after, but none
that fretted me like that."

"Father does not like girls to work in factories,'*
said Mary.

" No, I know he doesn't ; and teason good. They
oughtn't to go at after they're married, that I'm very
clear about. I could reckon up" (counting with her
fingers) " ay, nine men I know, as has been driven to
th' pubHc-house by having wives as worked in factories ;
good folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting
their little ones out at nurse, and letting their house go
all dirty, and their fires all out; and that was a place as
was tempting for a husband to stay in, was it ? He soon

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 187

finds out gin-shops, where all is clean and bright, and
where the fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a wel-
come as it were/'

Alice, who was standing near for the convenience of
hearing, had caught much of this speech, and it was
evident the subject had previously been discussed by the
women, for she chimed in.

" I wish our Jem could speak a word to th* Queen
about factory work for married women. Eh ! but he
comes it strong, when once yo get him to speak about it.
Wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home."

" I say it's Prince Albert as ought to be asked how
he'd like his missis to be from home when he comes in,
tired and worn, and wanting some one to cheer him;
and may be, her to come in by-and-bye, just as tired and
down in th* mouth; and how he'd like for her never to
be at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep
a bright fire in his grate. Let alone his meals being all
hugger-mugger, and comfortless. I'd be bound, prince
as he is, if his missis served him so, he'd be off to a gin-
palace, or summut o' that kind. So why can't he make
a law again poor folks' wives working in factories ?"

Mary ventured to say that she thought the Queen
and Prince Albert could not make laws, but the answer
was,

" Pooh ! don't tell me it's not the Queen as makes
laws ; and isn't she bound to obey Prince Albert ? And
if he said they mustn't, why she'd say they mustn't, and
then all folk would say, oh no, we never shall do any
such thing no more."

188 MART BARTON :

" Jem's getten on rarely," said Alice, who had not
heard her sister's last bursts of eloquence, and whose
thoughts were still running on her nephew, and his
various talents. " He's found out summut about a
crank or a tank, I forget rightly which it is, but th*
master's made him foreman, and he all the while turn-
ing off hands ; but he said he could na part wi* Jem,
nohow. He's good wage now : I tell him he'll be think-
ing of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good
wife, that he does."

Mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although
there was a secret spring of joy deep down in her heart,
at hearing Jem so spoken of But his mother only saw
the annoyed look, and was piqued accordingly. She was
not over and above desirous that her son should marry.
His presence in the house seemed a relic of happier
times, and she had some little jealousy of his future wife,
whoever she might be. Still she could not bear any one
not to feel gratified and flattered by Jem's preference,
and full well she knew how above all others he preferred
Mary. Now she had never thought Mary good enough
for Jem, and her late neglect in coming to see her, still
rankled a little in her breast. So she determined to
invent a little, in order to do away with any idea Mary
might have that Jem would choose her for " his right
down good wife," as aunt AHce called it.

" Ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a
lower voice, as if confidentially, but really to prevent
any contradiction or explanation from her simple sister-
in-law, she added.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 189

** It'll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that's her at
the provision-shop round the comer) will hear a secret
as will not displease her, Pm thinking. She's been casting
sheep's eyes at our Jem this many a day, but he thought
her father would not give her to a common working man •
but now he's as good as her, every bit. I thought once
he'd a fancy for thee, Mary, but I donnot think yo'd ever
ha' suited, so it's best as it is."

By an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexa-
tion, and to say, ** She hoped he'd be happy with Molly
Gibson. She was very handsome, for certain."

** Ay, and a notable body, too. I'll just step up-
stairs and show you the patchwork quilt she gave me
but last Saturday."

Mary was glad she was going out of the room. Her
words irritated her ; perhaps not the less because she
did not fully believe them. Besides she wanted to
speak to Alice, and Mrs. Wilson seemed to think that
she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention.

** Dear Alice," began Mary, " I'm so grieved to find
you so deaf ; it must have come on very rapid."

" Yes, dear, it's a trial ; I'll not deny it. Pray God
give me strength to find out its teaching. I felt it
sore one fine day when I thought I'd go gather some
meadow-sweet to make tea for Jane's cough ; and the
fields seemed so dree and still, and at first I could na'
make out what was wanting ; and then it struck me it
were th* song o' the birds, and that I never should hear
their sweet music no more, and I could na' help crying
a bit. But I've much to be thankful for. I think I'm

190 MART BARTON :

a comfort to Jane, if I'm only some one to scold now
and then ; poor body ! It takes off her thoughts firom
her sore losses when she can scold a bit. If my eyes
are left I can do well enough ; I can guess at what folk
are saying."

The splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made
its appearance, and Jane Wilson would not be satisfied
imless Mary praised it all over, border, centre, and
ground- work, right side and wrong ; and Mary did
her duty, saying all the more, because she could not
work herself up to any very hearty admiration of her
rival's present. She made haste, however, with her
commendations, in order to avoid encountering Jem.
As soon as she was fairly away from the house and
street, she slackened her pace, and began to think.
Did Jem really care for Molly Gibson ? Well, if he
did, let him. People seemed all to think he was much
too good for her (Mary's own self). Perhaps some one
else, far more handsome, and far more grand, would
show him one day that she was good enough to be
Mrs. Henry Carson. So temper, or what Mary dalled
" spirit," led her to encourage Mr. Carson more than
ever she had done before.

Some weeks after this, there was a meeting of the
Trades' Union to which John Barton belonged. The
morning of the day on which it was to take place he
had lain late in bed, for what was the use of getting
up ? He had hesitated between the purchase of meal
or opium, and had chosen the latter, for its use had
become a necessity with him. He wanted it to relieve

A TALE OF MAKCHE8TEB LITE, 191

JiiHi from the terrible depression its absence occadoned.
A large lump seemed only to bring him into a natural
state, or what had been his natural state formerly.
Eight o'clock was the hour fixed for the meeting ; and
at it were read letters, filled with details of woe from
all parts of the country. Fierce, heavy gloom brooded
over the assembly; and fiercely and heavily did the men
separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated by the
opposition of others to their desperate plans.

It was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the
glare of the gas-lighted room, and came out into the
street. Unceasing, soaking rain was falling ; the very
lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon the glassy
and their light reached but to a little distance from the
posts. The streets were cleared of passers-by, not a
creature seemed stirring, except here and there a drench-
ed policeman in his oil-skin cape. Barton wished the
others good night, and set off home. He had gone
through a street or two, when he heard a step behind
him ; but he did not care to look and see who it was.
A little further, and the person quickened step, and
touched his arm very lightly. He turned, and saw,
even by the darkness visible of that badly-lighted
street, that the woman who stood by him was of no
doubtful profession. It was told by her faded finery,
all unfit to meet the pelting of that pitiless storm ; the
gauze bonnet, once pink, now dirty white, the muslin
gown, all draggled, and soaking wet up to the very
knees ; the gay-coloured barege shawl, closely wrapped

192 MART BARTON :

round the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the
woman whispered : " I want to speak to you."

He swore an oath, and bade her begone.

*^ I really do. Don't send me away. I'm so out of
breath, I cannot say what I would all at once." She
put her hand to her side, and caught her breath with
evident pain.

" I tell thee I'm not the man for thee," adding an
opprobrious name. " Stay," said he, as a thought
suggested by her voice flashed across him. He griped
her arm — ^the arm he had just before shaken off, and
dragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post.
He pushed her bonnet back, and roughly held the face
she would fain have averted, to the light, and in her
large, unnaturally bright gray eyes, her lovely mouth,
half open, as if imploring the forbearance she could not
ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost Esther ;
she who had caused his wife's death. Much was like
the gay creature of former years ; but the glaring paint,
the sharp features, the changed eicpression of the whole I
But most of all, he loathed the dress ; and yet the poor
thing, out of her little choice of attire, had put on the
plainest she had, to come on that night's errand.

" So it's thee, is it I It's thee !" exclaimed John, as
he ground his teeth, and shook her with passion. *' Tve
looked for thee long at comers o' streets, and such
like places. I knew I should find thee at last. Thee'll
may be bethink thee o* some words I spoke, which put
thee up at th' time ; sommut about street- walkers ; but
oh no ! thou art none o' them naughts ; no one thinks

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 193

thou art, who sees thy fine draggle-tailed dress, and
thy pretty pink cheeks !" stopping for very want of
breath.

" Oh, mercy ! John, mercy I listen to me for Mary's
sake !"

She meant his daughter, but the name only fell on
his ear as belonging to his wife ; and it was adding
fuel to the fire. In vain did her face grow deadly
pale round the vivid circle of paint, in vain did she
gasp for mercy, — ^he burst forth again.

*' And thou names that name to me ! and thou
thinks the thought of her will bring thee mercy ! Dost
thou know it was thee who killed her, as sure as ever
Cain killed Abel. She'd loved thee as her own, and
she trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone
she never held up head again, but died in less than a
three week ; and at the judgment day she'll rise, and
point to thee as her murderer ; or if she don't, I '\vill."
He flimg her, trembling, sickening, fainting, from
him, and strode away. She fell with a feeble scream
against the lamp-post, and lay there in her weakness,
unable to rise. A policeman came up in time to see
the close of these occurrences, and concluding from
Esther's unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he
took her in her half-unconscious state to the lock-ups
for the night. The superintendent of that abode of
vice and misery, was roused from his dozing watch
through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and
meanings, which he reported as arising from intoxica-
tion. If he had listened^ he would have heard these
VOL. I, O

194 MABTBAKTON:

words, repeated in various forms, but always in the
same anxious, muttering way.

** He would not listen to me; what can I do? He
would not listen to me, and I wanted to warn him !
Oh, what shall I do to save Mary's child? What shall
I do? How can I keep her from being such a one as I
am; such a wretched, loathsome creature! She was
listening just as I Ustened, and loving just as I loved,
and the end will be just like my end. How shall I save
her? She won't hearken to warning, or heed it more
than I did; and who loves her well enough to watch
over her as she should be watched ? God keep her
from harm 1 And yet I won't pray for her; sinner that
I am ! Can my prayers be heard ? No ! they'll only
do harm. How shall I save her? He would not listen
to me."

So the night wore away. The next morning she
was taken up to the New Bailey, It was a clear case of
disorderly vagrancy, and she was committed to prison
for a month. How much might happen in that time !

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 195

CHAPTER XI.

« Mary, canst thou wreck bis peace,
Wha for thy sake irad gladly die ? .
Or canst thou break tbat heart of bis,
Whase only faut is loving thee ?"

BUBNS.

** 1 can like of the wealth, I must confess,
Yet more I prize the man, though moneyless ;
I am not of their humour yet that can
For title or estate affect a man ;
Or of myself one body deign to make
With him I loath, for his possession's sake."

Wxtheb's " FmBULL**

Babton returned home after his encounter with
Esther, uneasy and dissatisfied. He had said no more
than he had been planning to saj for years, in case she was
ever thrown in his way, in the character in which he
felt certain he should meet her. He believed she de-
served it all, and yet he now wished he had not said
it. Her look, as she asked for mercy, haunted him
through his broken and disordered sleep ; her form,
as he last saw her, lying prostrate in helplessness, would
not be banished firom his dreams. He sat up in bed to
try and dispel the vision. Now too late his conscience

02

196 MART BARTON:

smote him for liis harshness. It would have been all
very well, he thought, to have said what he did, if he
had added some kind words, at last. He wondered if
his dead wife was conscious of that night's occurrence ;
and he hoped not, for with her love for Esther he
believed it would embitter Heaven to have seen her so
degraded and repulsed. For he now recalled her hu-
mility, her tacit acknowledgment of her lost character ;
and he began to marvel if there was power in the reli-
gion he had often heard of, to turn her from her ways.
He felt that no earthly power that he knew of could
do it, but there glimmered on his darkness, the idea
that religion might save her. Still where to find her
again ? In the wilderness of a large town, where to
meet with an individual of so little value or note to
any?

And evening after evening he paced those streets in
which he had heard her footsteps following him, peer-
ing under every fantastic, discreditable bonnet, in the
hopes of once more meeting Esther, and addressing
her in a far different manner from what he had done
before. But he returned, night after right, disappointed
in his search, and at last gave it up ia despair, and tried
to recall his angry feelings towards her, in order to find
relief from his present self-reproach.

He often looked at Mary, and wished she T^ere not
so like her aunt, for the very bodily likeness seemed to
suggest a possibility of a similar likeness in their fate ;
and then this idea used to enrage his irritable mind,
and he became suspicious and anxious about Mary's

A TALE OF MAKCHESTSB LIFE. 197

conduct. Now hitherto she had been eo remarkably
iiee from all control, and almost from all inquiry con«
eeming her actions, that she did not brook this change
in her father s behaviour very well. Just when she
was yielding more than ever to Mr. Carson's desire of
frequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned con-
cerning her hours of leaving off work, whether she
had come straight home, &c. She could not tell lies ;
though she could conceal much if she were not ques-
tioned. So she took refuge in obstinate silence, alleging
as a reason for it her indignation at being so cross-
examined. This did not add to the good feeling be-
tween father and daughter, and yet they dearly loved
each other ; and in the minds of each, one principal
reason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased the
other, was the believing that this conduct would insure
that person's happiness.

Her father now began to wish Mary were married.
Then this terrible superstitious fear suggested by her
likeness to Esther would be done away with. He felt
that he could not resume the reins he had once slack-
ened. But with a husband it would be different. If
Jem Wilson would but marry her ! With his character
for steadiness and talent ! But he was afraid Mary had
slighted him, he came so seldom now to the house. He
would ask her.

" Mary, what's come o'er thee and Jem Wilson ?
Yo were great friends at one time."

" Oh, folk say he's going to be married to Molly

198 MART BARTOK :

Gibson, and of course courting takes up a deal o' time,"
answered Mary, as indifferently as she could.

" Thou'st played thy cards badly, then," replied her
father, in a surly tone. " At one time he were des-
perate fond o' thee, or I'm much mistaken. Much
fonder of thee than thou deservedst."

** That's as people think," said Mary, pertly, for she
remembered that the very morning before she had met
Mr. Carson, who had sighed, and swore, and protested
all manner of tender vows that she was the loveliest,
sweetest, best, &c. And when she had seen him after-
wards riding with one of his beautiful sisters, had he
not evidently pointed her out as in some way or other
an object worthy of attention and interest, and then
lingered behind his sister's horse for a moment to kiss
his hand repeatedly. So, as for Jem Wilson, she could
whistle him down the wind.

But her father was not in the mood to put up with
pertness, and he upbraided her with the loss of Jem
Wilson till she had to bite her lips till the blood
came, in order to keep down the angry words that
would rise in her heairt. At last her father left the
house, and then she might give way to her passionate
tears.

It so happened that Jem, after much anxious thought,
had determined that day to " put his fate to the touch, to
win or lose it all." He was in a condition to maintain
a wife in comfort. It was true his mother and aunt must
form part of the household ; but such is not an uncom-

A TALE OF HANCHE8TEB LIFE. 199

mon case among the poor, and if there were the advan-
tage of previous friendship between the parties, it was
not, he thought, an obstacle to matrimony. Both mother
and aunt he believed would welcome Mar j. And oh I
what a certainty of happiness the idea of that welcome
implied.

He had been absent and abstracted all day long with
the thought of the coming event of the evening. He
almost smiled at himself for his care in washing and
dressing in preparation for his visit to Mary. As if one
waistcoat or another could decide his fate in so pas-
sionately momentous a thing. He believed he only de-
layed before his little looking-glass for cowardice, for
absolufe fear of a girl. He would try not to think so
much about the affair, and he thought the more.

Poor Jem ! it is not an auspicious moment for thee !

** Come in," said Mary, as some one knocked at the
door, while she sat sadly at her sewing, trying to earn
a few pence by working over hours at some mourning.

Jem entered, looking more awkward and abashed
than he had ever done before. Yet here was Mary all
alone, just as he had hoped to find her. She did not
ask him to take a chair, but after standing a minute or
two he sat down near her,

" Is your father at home, Mary ?" said he, by way of
making an opening, for she seemed determined to keep
silence, and went on stitching away.

" No, he's gone to his Union, I suppose." Another
silence. It was no use waiting, thought Jem. The
subject would never be led to by any talk he could

200 MAEY BAETOK :

think of in his anxious fluttered state. He had better
begin at once.

" Mary !" said he, and the unusual tone of his voice
made her look up for an instant, but in that time she
understood from his countenance what was coming, and
her heart beat so suddenly and violently she could
hardly sit still. Yet one thing she was sure of; nothing
he could say should make her have him. She would
show them all who would be glad to have her. She
was not yet calm after her father's irritating speeches.
Yet her eyes fell veiled before that passionate look
fixed upon her.

" Dear Mary ! (for how dear you are, I cannot rightly
tell you in words). It's no new story I'm going tb speak
about. You must ha' seen and known it long; for since
we were boy and girl, I ha^ loved you above father and
mother and all; and all I've thought on by day and
dreamt on by night, has been something in which you've
had a share. I'd no way of keeping you for long, and
I scorned to try and tie you down ; and I lived in terror
lest some one else should take you to himself. But now
Mary, I'm foreman in th' works, and, dear Mary I
listen," as she, in her unbearable agitation, stood up and
turned away from him. He rose too, and came
nearer, trying to take hold of her hand; but this she
would not allow. She was bracing herself up to refuse
him, for once and for all.

" And now, Mary, I've a home to offer you, and a
heart as true as ever man had to love you and
cherish you; we shall never be rich folk, I dare say; but

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 201

if a loving heart, and a strong right arm can shield you
from sorrow, or firom want, mine shall do it. I cannot
speak as I would like ; my love won't let itself be put in
words. But oh ! darling, say you believe me, and that
you'll be mine."

She could not speak at once ; her words would not
come.

** Mary, they say silence gives consent ; is it so ?" he
whispered.

Now or never the effort must be made.

" No ! it does not with me." Her voice was calm,
although she trembled from head to foot. ** I will always
be your friend, Jem, but I can never be your wife."

*' Not my wife!" said he, mournfully. " Oh Mary,
think awhile ! you cannot be my friend If you will not
be my wife. At least I can never be content to be only
your friend. Do think awhile ! If you say No you will
make me hopeless, desperate. It's no love of yesterday.
It has made the very groundwork of all that people call
good in me. I don't know what I shall be if you won't
have me. And Mary! think how glad your father
would be ! it may sound vain, but he's told me more
than once how much he should like to see us two
married !"

Jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in
Mary's present mood it told against him more than any
thing; for it suggested the false and foolish idea, that
her father, in his evident anxiety to promote her mar-
riage with Jem, had been speaking to him on the sub-
ject with some degree of solicitation.

202 MABT BABTON :

" I tell you, Jem, it cannot be. Once for all, I will
never marry you.'*

" And is this the end of all my hopes and fears ? the
end of my life, I may say, for it is the end of all worth
living for !" His agitation rose and carried him into
passion. " Mary ! you'll hear, may be, of me as a
drunkard, and may be as a thief, and may be as a mur-
derer. Remember ! when all are speaking ill of me,
you will have no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty
that will have made me what I feel I shall become. You
won't even say you'll try and Uke me; will you, Mary?"
said' he, suddenly changing his tone from threatening
despair to fond passionate entreaty, as he took her hand
and held it forcibly between both of his, while he tried
to catch a glimpse of her averted face. She was silent,
but it was from deep and violent emotion. He could
not bear to wait; he would not hope, to be dashed away
again; he rather in his bitterness of heart chose the
certainty of despair, and before she could resolve what
to answer, he flung away her hand and rushed out of
the house.

*'Jem! Jem!" cried she, with faint and choking
voice. It was too late; he left street after street behind
him with his almost winged speed, as he sought the
fields, where he might give way unobserved to all the
deep despair he felt.

It was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the
house, and foimd Mary at comparative peace, and now
she lay half across the dresser, her head hidden in her

A TALS OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 203

hands^ and every part of her body shaking with the
violence of her sobs. She could not have told at first
(if you had asked her, and she could have commanded
voice enough to answer) why she was in such agonised
giief. It was too sudden for her to analyse, or think
upon it. She only felt, that by her own doing her life
would be hereafter dreary and blank. By-and-bye her
sorrow exhausted her body by its power, and she seemed
to have no strength left for crying. She sat down; and
now thoughts crowded on her mind. One little hour
ago, and all was still unsaid, and she had her fate in her
own power. And yet, how long ago had she determined
to say pretty much what she did, if the occasion ever
offered.

It was as if two people were arguing the matter; that
mournful, desponding communion between her former
self and her present self. Herself, a day, an hour ago;
and herself now. For we have every one of us felt how a
very few minutes of the months and years called life, will
sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in an
entirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the
criminality of the bye-gone, and so change the aspect
of the coming time, that we look with loathing on the
very thing we have most desired. A few moments
may change our character for life, by giving a totally
different direction to our aims and energies.

To return to Mary. Her plan had been, as we well
know, to marry Mr. Carson, and the occurrence an hour
ago was only a preliminary step. True; but it had
unveiled her heart to her; it had convinced her she

204 MABT BABTON :

loved Jem above all persons or things. But Jem was
a poor meclianic, with a mother and aunt to keep; a
mother, too, who had shown her pretty clearly she did
not desire her for a daughter-in-law: while Mr. Carson
was rich, and prosperous, and gay, and (she believed)
would place her in all circumstances of ease and luxury,
where want could never come. What were these hollow
vanities to her, now she had discovered the passionate
secret of her soul ? She felt as if she almost hated
Mr. Carson, who had decoyed her with his baubles.
She now saw how vain, how nothing to her, would be
all gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she
might share them with Jem; yes, with him she harshly
rejected so short a time ago. If he were poor, she loved
him all the better. If his mother did think her un-
worthy of him, what was it but the truth, as she now
owned with bitter penitence. She had hitherto beem
walking in grope-light towards a precipice; but in the
clear revelation of that past hour, she saw her danger,
and turned away, resolutely, and for ever.

That was some comfort: I mean her clear perception
of what she ought not to do; of what no luring tempta-
tions should ever again induce her to hearken to. How
she could best undo the wrong she had done to Jem
and herself by refusing his love, was another anxious
question. She wearied herself with proposing plans,
and rejecting them.

She was roused to a consciousness of time, by hear-
ing the neighbouring church clock strike twelve. Her
father she knew might be expected home any minute,

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 205

and she was in no mood for a meeting with him. So
she hastily gathered up her work, and went to her own
little bed-room, leaving him to let himself in.

She put out her candle, that her father might not see
its light under the door; and sat down on her bed to
think. But after turning things over in her mind
again and again, she could only determine at once to
put an end to all further commimication with Mr. Car-
son, in the most decided way she could. Maidenly
modesty (and true love is ever modest) seemed to op-
pose every plan she could think of, for showing Jem
how much she repented her decision against him, and
how dearly she had now discovered that she loved him.
She came to the unusual wisdom of resolving to do
nothing, but try and be patient, and improve circum-
stances as they might turn up. Surely, if Jem knew
of her remaining immarried, he would try his fortune
again. He would never be content with one rejection ;
she believed she could not in his place. She had been
very wrong, but now she would try and do right, and
have womanly patience, until he saw her changed and
repentant mind in her natural actions. Even if she had
to wait for years, it was no more than now it was easy
to look forward to, as a penance for her giddy flirting
on the one hand, and her cruel mistake concerning her
feelings on the other. So anticipating a happy ending
to the course of her love, however distant it might be^
she fell asleep just as the earliest factory bells were ring-
ing. She had sunk down in her clothes, and her sleep
was unrefreshing. She wakened up shivery and chill

206 MART BABTON :

in body, and sorrow-stricken in mind, though she could
not at first rightly tell the cause of her depression.

She recalled the events of the night before, and still
resolved to adhere to those determinations she had then
formed. But patience seemed a far more difficult
virtue this morning.

She hastened down-stairs, and in her earnest sad de-
sire to do right, now took much pains to secure a com-
fortable though scanty breakfast for her &ther ; and
when he dawdled into the room, in an evidently irritable
temper,* she bore all with the gentleness of penitence,
till at last her mild answers turned away wrath.

She loathed the idea of meeting Sally Leadbitter at
her daily work; yet it must be done, and she tried to
nerve herself for the encounter, and to make it at once
imderstood, that having determined to give up having
any thing further to do with Mr. Carson, she considered
the bond of intimacy broken between them.

But Sally was not the person to let these resolutions
be carried into effect too easily. She soon became aware
of the present state of Mary's feelings, but she thought
they merely arose from the changeableness of girlhood,
and that the time would come when Mary would thank
her for almost forcing her to keep up her meetings and
communications with her rich lover.

So, when two days had passed over in rather too
marked avoidance of Sally on Mary's part; and when
the former was made aware by Mr. Carson's complaints
that Mary was not keeping her appointments with him,
and that unless he detained her by force, he had no

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 207

chance of obtaining a word as she passed him in the
street on her rapid walk home; she resolved to compel
Mary to what she called her 0¥ni good.

I She took no notice during the third day of Mary's

avoidance as they sat at work; she rather seemed to ac-
quiesce in the coolness of their intercourse. She put
away her sewing early, and went home to her mother,
who, she said, was more ailing than usual. The other
girls soon followed her example, and Mary, casting a
rapid glance up and down the street, as she stood last on
Miss Simmonds' door-step, darted homewards, in hopes
of avoiding the person whom she was fast learning to
dread. That night she was safe from any encounter
on her road, and she arrived at home, which she found
as she expected, empty; for she knew it was a club
night, which her father would not miss. She sat down
to recover breath, and to still her heart, which panted
more from nervousness than from over-exertion, although
she had walked so quickly. Then she ros6, and taking
off her bonnet, her eye caught the form of Sally Lead-
bitter passing the window with a lingering step, and
looking into the darkness with aU her might, as if to
ascertain if Mary were returned. In an instant she re-
passed and knocked at the house-door, but without
awaiting an answer, she entered.

" Well, Mary, dear" (knowing well how little **dear"
Mary considered her just then) ; " it is so difficult to
get any comfortable talk at Miss Simmonds', I thought
I'd just step up and see you at home."

I " I imderstood from what you said your mother was

208 MABT BARTOK :

ailing, and that you wanted to be with her," replied
Mary, in no welcoming tone.

" Ay, but mother's better now," said the unabashed
Sally. "Your father's out I suppose?" looking round
as well as she could; for Mary made no haste to perform
the hospitable oflSces of striking a match, and lighting
a candle. .

" Yes, he's out," said Mary, shortly, and busying her-
self at last about the candle, without ever asking her
visitor to sit down.

" So much the better,'' answered Sally, " for to tell
you the truth, Mary, I've a friend at th' end of the
street, as is anxious to come and see you at home, since
you're grown so particular as not to like to speak to him
in the street. He'll be here directly."

"Oh, Sally, don't let him," said Mary, speaking
at last heartily; and running to the door she would have
fastened it, but Sally held her hands, laughing mean-
while at her distress.

" Oh, please, Sally ,^^ struggling, ** dear Sally I don't
let him come here, the neighbours will so talk, and
father'll go mad if he hears; he'll kill me, Sally, he
will. Besides, I don't love him — I never did. Oh,
let me go," as footsteps approached; and then, as they
passed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she
continued, " Do Sally, dear Sally, go and tell him I
don't love him, and that I don't want to have any thing
more to do with him. It was very wrong, I dare say,
keeping company with him at all, but Pm very sorry, if
I've led him to think too much of me ; and I don't want

A TALE OF HAKCHESTEB LIFE. 209

Mm to think any more. Will you tell him this, Sally ?
and Pll do any thing for you if you will."

" 111 tell you what I'll do," said Sally, in a more
relenting mood, " 111 go back with you to where he's
waiting for us; or rather, I should say, where I told
him to wait for a quarter of an hour, till I seed if your
father was at home ; and if I didn't come back in that
time, he said he^d come here, and break the door open
but he'd see you."

** Oh, let us go, let us go," said Mary, feeling that
the interview must be, and had better be anywhere
than at home, where her father might return at any
minute. She snatched up her bonnet, and was at the
end of the court in an instant ; but then, not knowing
whether to turn to the right or to the left, she was
obliged to wait for Sally, who came leisurely up, and
put her arm through Mary's, with a kind of decided
hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changing
her mind, and turning back. But this, under the circum-
stances, was quite different to Mary's plan. She had
wondered more than once if she must not have another
interview with Mr. Carson; and had then determined,
while she expressed her resolution that it should be the
final one, to tell him how sorry she was if she had
thoughtlessly given him false hopes. For be it remem-
bered, she had the innocence, or the ignorance, to believe
his intentions honourable ; and he, feeling that at any
price he must have her, only that he would obtain her
as cheaply as he could, had never undeceived her;
while Sally Leadbitter laughed in her sleeve at them

VOL. I. P

210 HABT BABTON :

toth, and wondered how it would all end, — ^whether
Mary would gain her point of marriage, with her dj
aSectation of believing such to he Mr. Carson's intention
in courting her.

Not very far from the end of the street, into which
the court where Mary lived opened, they met Mr.
Carson, his hat a good deal slouched over his face as if
afraid of being recognised. He turned when he savr
them coming, and led the way without uttering a word
(although they were close behind) to a street of half-
finished houses.

The length of the walk gave Mary time to recoil
from the interview which was to follow ; but even if
her own resolve to go through with it had failed, there
was the steady grasp of Sally Leadbitter, which she
could not evade, without an absolute struggle.

At last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of
a wooden fence, put up to keep the building rubbish
from intruding on the foot-pavement. Inside this fence,
a minute afterwards, the girls were standing by him ;
Mary now returning Sally's detaining grasp with in-
terest, for she had determined on the way to make
her a witness, willing, or unwilling, to the ensuing con-
versation. But Sally's curiosity led her to be a very
passive prisoner in Mary's hold.

With more freedom than he had ever used before,
Mr. Carson put his arm firmly round Mary's waist, in.
spite of her indignant resistance.

**Nay, nay! you little witch I Now I have caught
you, I shall keep you prisoner. TeU me now what has

A TALE OF HANCHE8TEB LIFE. 211

made yoa nm away from me so fast these few days —
tell me, you sweet little coquette !"

Mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be al-
most opposite to him, while she spoke out calmly, and
boldly,

** Mr. Carson ! I want to speak to you for once and
for aU. Since I met you last Monday evening, I have
made up my mind to have nothing more to do with
you. I know IVe been wrong in leading you to think
I liked you ; but I believe I didn't rightly know my
own mind ; and I humbly beg your pardon, sir, if IVe
led you to think too much of me."

For an instant he was surprised ; the next, vanity
came to his aid, and convinced him that she could only
be joking. He, yoimg, agreeable, rich, handsome!
No ! she was only showing a little womanly fondness for
coquetting*

** You're a darling little rascal to go on in this way !
* Humbly begging my pardon if you've made me think
too much of you.' As if you didn't know I think
of you £rom morning to night. But you want to be told
it again and again, do you?"

'* No, indeed, sir, I don't. I would far liefer* that
you should say you will never think of me again, than
that you should speak of me in this way. For indeed,
sir, I never was more in earnest than I am, when I
say to-night is the last night I will ever speak to you."

• « Liefer," rather.

** Tet had I levre unwist for sorrow die."

Chaucer / " TroUus and Cremde:'

p2

212 MABT BABTON :

" Last niglit, you sweet little equivocator, but not
last day. Ha, Mary! I've caught you, have I?" as
she, puzzled by his perseverance in thinking her
joking, hesitated in what form she could now put her
meaning.

" I mean, sir," she said, sharply, ** that I will never
speak to you again at any time, after to-night."

"And what's made this change, Mary?" said he,
seriously enough now. " Have I done any thing to oiOfend
you?" added he, earnestly.

**No, sir," she answered gently, but yet firmly.
" I cannot tell you exactly why I've changed my mind ;
but I shall not alter it again ; and as I said before, I beg
your pardon if I've done wrong by you. And now,
sir, if you please, good night."

" But I do not please. You shall not go. What
have I done, Mary? Tell me. You must not go
without telling me how I have vexed you. What would
you have me do?"

"Nothing, sir! but (in an agitated tone) oh! let
me go ! You cannot change my mind ; it's quite made
up. Oh, sir ! why do you hold me so tight. If you
mil know why I won't have any thing more to do with
you, it is that I cannot love you. I have tried, and I
really cannot."

This naive and candid avowal served her but little.
He could not understand how it could be true. Some
reason lurked behind. He was passionately in love.
What should he do to tempt her ? A thought struck
him.

A TALE OF HAKGHESTEB LIFE. 213

'' Listen ! Mary. Nay, I cannot let you go till you
have heard me. I do love you dearly ; and I won't
believe but what you love me a very little, just a very
little. Well, if you don't like to own it, never mind !
I only want now to tell you how much I love you, by
wliat I am ready to give up for you. ^You know (or
perhaps you are not fully aware) how little my father
and mother would like me to marry you. So angry
would they be, and so much ridicule should I have to
brave, that of course I have never thought of it till
now. I thought we could be happy enough without
marriage." (Deep sank those words into Mary's heart.)
"But now, if you like, I'll get a licence to-morrow
zooming — nay, to-night, and 1*11 marry you in defiance
of all the world, rather than give you up. In a year
or two my father will forgive me, and meanwhile you
shall have every luxury money can purchase, and every
charm that love can devise to make your life happy.
After all, my mother was but a factory girl." (This
was said half to himself, as if to reconcile himself to
this bold step.) " Now, Mary, you see how willing I
am to — ^to sacrifice a good deal for you ; I even offer
you marriage, to satisfy your little ambitious heart;
so, now, won't you say you can love me a little, little
bit?"

He pulled her towards him. To his surprise, she
still resisted. Yes ! though all she had pictured to
herself for so many months in being the wife of Mr.
Carson, was now within her grasp, she resisted. His
speech had given her but one feeling, that of exceed-

214 mabtbabton:

ing great relief. For she liad dreaded, now she knew
what true love was, to think of the attachment she
might have created ; the deep feeling her flirting con-
duct might have called out. She had loaded herself
with reproaches for the misery she might have caused.
It was a relief,^ gather that the attachment was of
that low, despicable kind, which can plan to seduce
the object of its affection ; that the feeling she had
caused was shallow enough, for it only pretended to
embrace self, at the expense of the misery, the ruin, of
one falsely termed beloved. She need not be penitent
to such a plotter ! That was the relief.

"I am obliged to you, sir, for telling me what
you have. Tou may think I am a fool ; but I did
think you meant to marry me all along ; and yet,
thinking so, I felt I could not love you. Still I felt
sorry I had gone so far in keeping company with you.
Now, sir, I tell you, if I had loved you before, I
don't think I should have loved you now you have
told me you meant to ruin me ; for that's the plain
English of not meaning to marry me till just this
minute. I said I was sorry, and humbly begged your
pardon ; that was before I knew what you were. Now
I scorn you, sir, for plotting to ruin a poor girL Good
night."

And with a wrench, for which she had reserved all
her strength, she was off like a bolt. They heard her
fliying footsteps echo down the quiet street. The next
sound was Sally's laugh, which grated on Mr. Carson's
ears, and keenly irritated him.

A TALE 07 HANCHS8TEB LIFE. 2Ifi

*' And what do you find bo amusing, Sally ?' asked
he.

" Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I humbly beg your
pardon, as Mary says, but I can't help laughing, to think
how she's outwitted us." (She was going to have said,
*' outwitted you," but changed the pronoun.)

" Why, Sally, had you any idea she was going to fly
out in this style ?"

" No, I hadn't, to be sure. But if you did think of
marrying her, why (if I may be so bold as to ask) did
you go and tell her you had no thought of doing other-
wise by her? That was what put her up at last P'

** Why I had repeatedly before led her to infer that
marriage was not my object. I never dreamed she
could have been so foolish as to have mistaken me, little
provoking romancer though she be! So I naturally
wished her to know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of — of
myself, in short, I was willing to make for her sake ;
yet I don't think she was aware of it after all. I believe
I might have any lady in Manchester if I liked, and yet
I was willing and ready to marry a poor dress-maker.
Don't you understand me now ? and don't you see
what a sacrifice I was making to humour her ? and all
to no avail."

Sally was silent, so he went on :

" My father would have forgiven any temporary con-
nexion, far sooner than my marrying one so far beneath
me in rank."

** I thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory
^1," reminded Sally, rather maliciously.

216 HABTBABTON:

" Yes, yes ! — but then my father was in much such a
station ; at any rate, there was not the disparity there
is between Mary and me."

Another pause.

" Then you mean to give her up, sir. She made no
bones of saying she gave you up."

" No, I do not mean to give her up, whatever you
and she may please to think. I am more in love with
her than ever ; even for this charming capricious ebul-
lition of hers. She'll come round, you may depend
upon it. Women always do. They always have second
thoughts, and find out that they are best in casting off
a lover. Mind ! I don't say I shall offer her the same
terms again."

With a few more words of no importance, the allies
parted.

A TALE OF MAKCHESTSB LIFB. 217

CHAPTER XIL

" I loY *d him not ; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.
I checked him while he spoke ; jet, could he speak,

Alas ! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought."

W. S. LA2a>OR.

And now Mary liad, as she thought, dismissed both
her lovers. But they looked on their dismissals with
Very different eyes. He who loved her with all his
heart and with all his soul, considered his rejection final.
He did not comfort himself with the idea, which would
have proved so well founded in his case, that women
have second thoughts about casting off their lovers.
He had too much respect for his own heartiness of love
to believe himself unworthy of Mary; that mock hum-
ble conceit did not enter his head. He thought he did
" not hit Mary's fancy;" and though that may sound a
trivial every-day expression, yet the reality of it cut him
to the heart. Wild visions of enlistment, of drinking
himself into forgetfulness, of becoming desperate in some
way or another, entered his mind; but then the thpught

218 UABT BABTOK :

of his mother stood like an angel with a drawn sword in
the way to sin. For, you know, " he was the only son
of his mother, and she was a widow ;" dependent on
him for daily bread. So he could not squander away
health and time, which were to him money wherewith
to support her failing years. He went to his work,
accordingly, to all outward semblance just as usual ;
but with a heavy, heavy heart within.

Mr. Carson, as we have seen, persevered in consider-
ing Mary's rejection of him as merely a " charming
caprice." If she were at work, Sally Leadbitter was
sure to slip a passionately loving note into her hand,
and then so skilfully move away from her side, that
Mary could not all at once return it, without making
some sensation among the work-women. She was
even forced to take several home with her. But
after reading one, she determined on her plan. She
made no great resistance to receiving them from Sally,
but kept them unopened, and occasionally returned
them in a blank half-sheet of paper. But far worse
than this, was the being so constantly waylaid as she
went home by her persevering lover; who had been so
long acquainted with all her habits, that she found it
difficult to evade him. Late or early, she was never
certain of being free from him. Go this way or that,
he might come up some cross street when she had just
congratulated herself on evading him for that day. He
could not have taken a surer mode of making himself
odious to her.

And all this time Jem Wilson never came ! Not to

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 219

see her — ^that she did not expect — ^bat to see her father;
to — she did not know what, but she had hoped he
would have come on some excuse, just to see if she
hadn't changed her mind. He never came. Then she
grew weaiy and impatient, and her spirits sank. The
p^secution of the one lover, and the neglect of the other,
oppressed her sorely. She could not now sit quietly
through the evening at her work; or, if she kept, by a
strong effort, from pacing up and down the room, she felt
as if she must sing to keep off thought while she sewed.
And her songs were the maddest, merriest, she could
think of. " Barbara Allen," and such sorrowful ditties,
did well enough for happy times ; but now she required
all the aid that could be derived from external excite-
ment to keep down the impulse of grief.

And her father, too — he was a great anxiety to her,
he looked so changed and so ill. Yet he would not
acknowledge to any ailment. She knew, that be it as
late as it would, she never left off work until (if the poor
servants paid her pretty regularly for the odd jobs of
mending she did for them) she had earned a few pence,
enough for one good meal for her father on the next day.
But veiy frequently, all she could do in the morning,
after her late sitting up at night, was to run with the
work home, and receive the money from the person for
whom it was done. She could not stay often to make
purchases of food, but gave up the money at once to her
father's eager clutch ; sometimes prompted by savage hun-
ger it is true, but more frequently by a craving for opium.

On the whole he was not so hungiy as his daughter.

220 MABY BABTON :

For it was a long fast from the one o'clock dinner-hour
at Miss Simmonds* to the close of Mary's vigil, which was
often extended to midnight. She was young, and had
not yet learned to bear " clemming."

One. evening, as she sang a merry song over her
work, stopping occasionally to sigh, the blind Margaret
came groping in. It had been one of Mary's additional
sorrows that her friend had been absent from home, ac-
companying the lecturer on music in his round among
the manufacturing towns of Yorkshire and Lancashire.
Her grandfather, too, had seen this a good time for
going his expeditions in search of specimens ; so that the
house had been shut up for several weeks.

"Oh! Margaret, Margaret! how glad I am to see
you. Take care. There, now you're all right, that's
father's chair. Sit down." — She kissed her over and
over again.

^* It seems like the beginning o' brighter times, to see
you again, Margaret. Bless you ! And how well you
look !"

"Doctors always send ailing folk for change of air!
and you know I've had plenty o' that same lately."

" You've been quite a traveller for sure ! Tell us all
about it, do, Margaret. Where have you been to, first
place?'

" Eh, lass, that would take a long time to tell. Half
o'er the world I sometimes think. Bolton, and Bury,
and Owdham ) and Halifax, and — but Mary, guess who
I saw there ! May be you know though, so it's not fair
guessing,"

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 221

*' No, I donnot. Tell me, Margaret, for I cannot
abide waiting, and guessing/*

• " Well, one night as I were going fra' my lodgings
-wV the help on a lad as belonged to th' landlady, to
find the room where I were to sing, I heard a cough
before me, walking along. Thinks I, that's Jem Wilson's
cough, or Pm much mistaken. Next time came a sneeze
and a cough, and then I were certain. First I hesitated
whether I should speak, thinking if it were a stranger
he'd may be think me forrard.* But I knew bhnd folks
must not be nesh about using their tongues, so says I,
' Jem Wilson, is that you?' And sure enough it was,
and nobody else. Did you know he were in Halifax,
Mary?"

" No;" she answered, faintly and sadly; for Halifax
w^ all the same to her heart as' the Antipodes; equally
inaccessible by humble penitent looks and maidenly
tokens of love.

" Well, he's there, however; he's putting up an en-
gine for some folks there, for his master. He's doing
well, for he's getten four or five men imder him; we'd
two or three meetings, and he telled me all about his
invention for doing away wi' the crank, or somewhat.
His master's bought it from him, and ta'en out a patent,
and Jem's a gentleman for life wi' the money his master
gied him. But you'll ha heard all this, Mary ?"

No ! she had not.

" Well, I thought it all happened afore he left Man-
chester, and then in course you'd ha' knqwn. But may
• "Forrard," forward.

222 MABT BABTOK:

be it were all settled after he got to Hali&x ; howeYer,
he's gotten two or three hunder pounds for his inven-
tion. But what's up with you, Mary ? you're sadly
out o' sorts. You've never been quarrelling wi' Jem,
surely."

Now Mary cried outright ; she was weak in body,
and unhappy in mind, and the time was come when she
might have the rehef of telling her grief. She could
not bring herself to confess how much of her sorrow
was caused by her having been vain, and foolish ; she
hoped that need never be known, and she could not
bear to think of it.

*' Oh, Margaret ; do you know Jem came here one
night when I were put out, and cross. Oh, dear!
dear I I could bite my tongue out when I think on it.
And he told me how he loved me, and I thought I did
not love him, and I told him I didn't ; and, Margaret, —
he believed me, and went away so sad, and so angry ;
and now I'd do any thing, — ^I would, indeed," her sobs
choked the end of her sentence. Margaret looked at
her with sorrow, but with hope ; for she had no doubt
in her own mind, that it was only a temporary estrange-
ment.

^' Tell me, Margaret," said Mary, taking her apron
down from her eyes, and looking at Margaret with eager
anxiety, " What can I do to bring him back to me ?
Should I write to him ?"

" No," replied her fiiend, " that would not do. Men
are so queer, they like to have a' the courting to them-
selves."

A TALE OF HANCHESTEH LIFE.

** Bat I did not mean to write him a courting letter/'
said Maiy, somewhat indignantly.

^' If you wrote at all, it would be to give him a hint
you'd taken the rue, and would be very glad to have
him now. I believe now he'd rather find that out
himself."

'' But he won't try," said Mary, sighing. <' How can
he find it out when he's at Halifax?"

" If he's a will he's a way, depend upon it. And
you would not have him if he's not a will to you, Mary I
No, dear !" changing her tone from the somewhat hard
way in which sensible people too often speak, to the soft
accents of tenderness which come with such peculiar
grace from them; '^ you must just wait and be patient.
You may depend upon it, all will end well, and better
than if you meddled in it now."

" But it's so hard to be patient," pleaded Mary.

'•Ay, dear; being patient is the hardest work we,
any on us, have to do through life, 1 take it. Waiting
is fax more difficult than doing. I've known that about
my sight, and many a one has known it in watching the
sick; but it's one of God's lessons we all must learn,
one way or another.^' After a pause. " Have ye been
to see his mother of late?"

" No ; not for some weeks. When last I went she
was so firabbit* with me, that I really thought she wished
I'd keep away."

" Well ! if I were you I'd go. Jem will hear on't,
and it will do you far more good in his mind than
• «Frabbit,"m-tempeied.

224 HABY BABTON :

writing a letter, which, after all, you would find a tougli
piece of work when you came to settle to it. 'Twould
be hard to say neither too much nor too little. But I
must be going, grandfather is at home, and it's our first
night together, and he must not be sitting wanting me
any longer."

She rose up from her seat, but still delayed going.

" Mary ! IVe somewhat else I want to say to you,
and I don't rightly know how .to begin. You see,
grandfather and I know what bad times is, and we
know your father is out o'work, and I'm getting more
money than I can well manage ; and dear, would you
just take this bit o' gold, and pay me back in good
times." The tears stood in Margaret's eyes as she
spoke.

" Dear Margaret, we're not so bad pressed as that."
(The thought of her father, and his ill looks, and his one
meal a day, rushed upon Mary.) " And yet, dear, if
it would not put you out o' your way, — I would work
hard to make it up to you ; — ^but would not your grand*
father be vexed ?"

" Not he, wench ! It were more his thought than
mine, and we have gotten ever so many more at home,
so don't hurry yours^l about paying. It's hard to be
blind, to be sure, else money comes in so easily now
to what it used to do ; and its downright pleasure to
earn it, for I do so like singing.'*

*' I wish I could sing," said Mary, looking at the
sovereign.

^^ Some has one kind o' gifts, and some another.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 225

Many's the time when I could see, that I longed for
your beauty, Mary ! We're like childer, ever wanting
what we han not got. But now I must say just one
more word. Remember, if you're sore pressed for
money, we shall take it very unkind if you donnot let
us know. Good bye to ye."

In spite of her blindness she hurried away, anxious
to rejoin her grandfather, and desirous also to escape
from Mary's expressions of gratitude.

Her visit had done Mary good in many ways. It
had strengthened her patience and her hope. It had
given her confidence in Margaret's sjrmpathy ; and last,
and really least in comforting power (of so little value
are silver and gold in comparison with love, that gift
in every one's power to bestow), came the consciousness
of the money-value of the sovereign she yet held in
her hand. The many things it might purchase ! First
of all came the thought of a comfortable supper for
her father that very night ; and acting instantly upon
the idea, she set off in hopes that all the provision-shops
might not yet be closed, although it was so late.

That night the cottage shone with unusual light, and
fire-gleam ; and the father and daughter sat down to a
meal they thought almost extravagant. It was so long
since they had had enough to eat.

" Food gives heart," say the Lancashire people ;
and the next day Mary made time to go and call on
Mrs. Wilson, according to Margaret's advice. She
found her quite alone, and more gracious than she had

VOL. I. Q

226 MABT BARTON :

been the last time Mary had visited her. Alice "was
gone out she said.

*' She would just step to the post-office, all for no
earthly use. For it were to ask if they hadn't a letter
lying there for her from her foster-son Will Wilson, the
sailor-lad."

" What made her think there were a letter ?" asked
Mary.

*' Why yo see, a neighbour as has been in Liver-
pool, telled us Will's ship were come in. Now he said
last time he were in Liverpool he*d ha' come to ha' seen
Alice, but his ship had but a week holiday, and hard
work for the men in that time too. So Alice makes
sure hell come this, and has had her hand behind her
ear at every noise in th' street, thinking it were him.
And to-day she were neither to have nor to hold, but
off she would go to th' post, and see if he had na sent
her a line to th' old house near yo. I tried to get her
to give up going, for let alone her deafness she's getten
so dark, she cannot see five yajfds afore her ; but no, she
would go, poor old body."

" I did not know her sight had failed her ; she used
to have good eyes enough when she lived neaij us."

" Ay, but it's gcme lately a good deal. But you never
ask after Jem — " anxious to get in a word on the subject
nearest her heart.

" No," replied Mary, blushing scarlet. " How is

her

" I cannot justly say how he is, seeing he's at Hali-

A TALE OF HAKCHE8TEB LITE. 227

lax ; but lie were very well when he wrote last Tues-
day. Han ye heard o' his good luck ?"

Rather to her disappointment, Mary owned she had
heard of the sum his master had paid him for his in-
vention.

" Well ! and did not Margaret tell yo what he'd done
wi^ it? It's just like him though, ne'er to say a word
about it. Why, when it were paid what does he do,
but get his master to help him to buy an income for me
and Alice. He had her name put down for her Ufc ;
but, poor thing, she'll not be long to the fore, I'm think-
ing. She's sadly failed of late. And so Mary, yo see,
we^re two ladies o' property. It's a matter o' twenty
pound a year they tell me. I wish the twins had lived,
bless 'em," said she, dropping a few tears. "They
should ha' had the best o' schooling, and their belly-
fulls o' food. I suppose they're better off in heaven, only
I should go like to see 'em."

Mary's heart filled with love at this new proof of
Jem's goodness; but she could not talk about it. She
took Jane Wilson's hand, and pressed it with affection;
and then turned the subject to Will, her sailor nephew.
Jane was a little bit sorry, but her prosperity had
made her gentler, and she did not fesent what she felt
as Mary's indiflference to Jem, and his merits.

" He's been in Africa and that neighbourhood, I be-
lieve. He's a fine chap, but he's not gotten Jem's hair.
His has too much o' the red in it. He sent Alice (but,
maybe, she telled you) a matter o' five pound when hp

Q 2

228 MABY BABTON:

were over before; but that were nougbt to an income, jo
know/'

" It's not every one that can get a hundred or two at
a time," said Mary.

** No ! no ! that's true enough. There's not many a
one like Jem. That's Alice's step," said she, hastening
to open the door to her sister-in-law. AUce looked
weary, and sad, and dusty. The weariness and the dust
would not have been noticed either by her, or the
others, if it had not been for the sadness.

"No letters!'^ said Mrs. Wilson.

"No, none! I must just wait another day to hear
fra my lad. It's very dree work, waiting !" said Alice.

Margaret's words came into Mary's mind. Every
one has their time and kind of waiting.

" If I but knew he were safe, and not drowned !"
spoke Alice. ** If I but knew he were drowned, I
would ask grace to say. Thy will be done. It's the
waiting."

" It's hard work to be patient to all of us," said Mary;
" I know I find it so, but I did not know one so good
as you did, Alice; I shall not think so badly of myself '

for being a bit impatient, now I've heard you say you j

find it difficult." I

The idea of reproach to Alice was the last in Mary's
mind; and AUce knew it was. Nevertheless, she said,

" Then, my dear, I ask your pardon, and God'*8 par-
don, too, if I've weakened your faith, by showing you
how feeble mine was. Half our life's spent in waiting,

A TALE OF HAKGHESTEB LIFE. 229

and it ill becomes one like me, wi' so many mercies, to
grumble. Ill try and put a bridle o'er my tongue, and
jBj thoughts too." She spoke in a humble and gentle
voice, like one asking forgiveness.

** Come Alice," interposed Mrs. Wilson, *' don't fret
yoursel for e'er a trifle wrong said here or there. See !
IVe put th' kettle on, and you and Mary shall ha' a dish
o' tea in no time."

So she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable-
looking substantial loaf, and set Mary to cut bread and
butter, while she rattled out the tea-cups — always a
cheerful sound.

Just as they were sitting down, there was a knock
heard at the door, and without waiting for it to be
opened from the inside, some one lifted the latch, and
in a man's voice asked, if one George Wilson lived
there ?

Mrs. Wilson was entering on a long and sorrowful
explanation of his having once lived there, but of his
having dropped down dead ; when Alice, with the
instinct of love (for in all usual and common instances,
right and hearing failed to convey impressions to her
until long after other people had received them), arose,
and tottered to the door.

" My bairn ! — ^my own dear bairn !" she exclaimed,
falling on Will Wilson's neck.

You may fancy the hospitable, and welcoming commo-
tion that ensued; how Mrs. Wilson laughed, and talked,
and cried, altogether, if such a thing can be done; and
how Mary gazed with wondering pleasure at her old

230 MABT BARTON:

playmate; now, a dashing, bronzed-looking, ringletted
sailor, frank, and hearty, and affectionate.

But it was something different from common to see
Alice's joy at once more having her foster-child with
her. She did not speak, for she really could not; but
the tears came coursing down her old withered cheeks,
and dimmed the horn spectacles she had put on, in
order to pry lovingly into his face. So what with her
faiUng sight, and her tear-blinded eyes, she gave up
the attempt of learning his face by heart through the
medium of that sense, and tried another. She passed
her sodden, shrivelled hands, all trembling with eager*
ness, over his manly face, bent meekly down in order
that she might more easily make her strange inspection.
At last, her soul was satisfied.

After tea, Mary, feeling sure there was much to be
said on both sides, at wliich it would be better no one
should be present, not even an intimate friend like her-
self, got up to go away. This seemed to arouse Alice
from her dreamy consciousness of exceeding happiness,
and she hastily followed Mary to the door. There,
standing outside, with the latch in her hand, she took
hold of Mary's arm, and spoke nearly the first words
she had uttered since her nephew's return.

" My dear ! I shall never forgive mysel, if my wicked
words to-night are any stumbling-block in your path.
See how the Lord has put coals of fire on my head !
Oh ! Mary, don't let my being an unbelieving Thomas
weaken your faith. Wait patiently on the Lord, what-
ever your trouble may be.^'

A TALE or MANCHB8TEB LIFE. 231

CHAPTER Xm.

** The mermaid sat upon the rocks
All day long.
Admiring her beauty and combing her locks.
And singing a mermaid song.

And hear the mermaid's song you may,

As sure as sure can be,
If you will but follow the sun all day.

And souse with him into the sea."

W. S. Landob.

It was perhaps four or five days after the events men-
tioned in the last chapter, that one evening, as Mary
stood lost in reverie at the window, she saw Will Wilson
enter the court, and come quickly up to her door. She
was glad to see him, for he had always been a friend of
hers, perhaps too much like her in character ever to be-
come anything nearer or dearer. She opened the door
in readiness to receive his frank greeting, which she as
fiankly returned.

** Come Mary ! on with bonnet and shawl, or what-
ever rigging you women require before leaving the
house. I*m sent to fetch you, and I can't lose time
when Pm under orders.''

232 MAEr barton: '

** Where am I to go to?'* asked Mary, as her heart
leaped up at the thought of who might be waiting for
her.

" Not very far/^ replied he. " Only to old Job Legh's
round the comer here. Aunt would have me come and
see these new friends of hers, and then we meant to ha'
come on here to see you and your father, but the old
gentleman seems inclined to make a night of it, and
have you all there. Where's your father? I want to
see him. He must come too."

*' He's out, but I'll leave word next door for him to
follow me; that's to say, if he comes home afore long."
She added, hesitatingly, ** Is any one else at Job's ?"

" No ! My aunt Jane would not come for some maggot
or other; and as for Jem ! I don't know what you've all
been doing to him, but he's as down-hearted a chap as
I'd wish to see. He's had his sorrows sure enough,
poor lad ! But it's time for him to be shaking off his
dull looks, and not go moping like a girl."

'^ Then he's come fra Halifax, is he?" asked Mary.

" Yes ! his body's come, but I think he's left his heart
behind him. His tongue I'm sure he has, as we used
to say to childer, when they would not speak. I try
to rouse him up a bit, and I think he likes having me
with him, but still he's as gloomy and as dull as can be.
'Twas only yesterday he took me to the works, and you'd
ha' thought us two Quakers as the spirit hadn't moved,
all the way down we were so mum. It's a place to craze
a man, certainly; such a noisy black hole ! There were
one or two things worth looking at, the bellows for in-

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 233

stance, or the gale they called a bellows. I could ha'
stood near it a whole day ; and if I'd a berth in that
place, I should like to be bellows-man, if there is such a
one. But Jem weren't diverted even with that; he
stood as grave as a judge while it blew my hat out o'
my hand. He's lost all relish for his food, too, which
frets my aunt sadly. Gome ! Mary, ar'n't you ready ?"

She had not been able to gather if she were to see
Jem at Job Legh's; but when the door was opened, she
at once saw and felt he was not there. The evening
then would be a blank; at least so she thought for the
first five minutes; but she soon forgot her disappoint^
ment in the cheerful meeting of old friends, all, except
herself, with some cause for rejoicing at that very time.
Margaret, who could not be idle, was knitting away,
with her face looking full into the room, away from her
work. Alice sat meek and patient with her dimmed
eyes and gentle look, trying to see and to hear, but
never complaining; indeed, in her inner self she was
blessing God for her happiness ; for the joy of having
her nephew, her child, near her, was far more present to
her mind, than her deprivations of sight and hearing.

Job was in the full glory of host and hostess too, for
by a tacit agreement he had roused himself from his
habitual abstraction, and had assumed many of Marga-
ret's little household duties. While he moved about
he was deep in conversation with the young sailor, try-
ing to extract from him any circumstances connected
with the natural history of the different countries he
had visited.

234 HART BARTON :

" Oh ! if you are fond of grabs, and flies, and beetles,
there's no place for 'em like Sierra Leone. I wish you'd
had some of ours; we had rather too much of a good
thing ; we drank them with our drink, and could
scarcely keep from eating them with our food. I never
thought any folk could care for such fat green beasts as
those, or I would ha' brought you them by the thousand.
A plate full o' peas-soup would ha' been full enough
for ydu, I ^re say; it were often too full for us."

** I would ha' given a good deal for some on 'em," said
Job.

^^ Well, I knew folk at home Hked some o' the queer
things one meets with abroad ; but I never thought
they'd care for them nasty slimy things. I were always
on the look-out for a mermaid, for that I knew were a
curiosity."

" You might ha' looked long enough/' said Job, in
an under-tone of contempt, which, however, the quick
ears of the sailor caught.

" Not so long, master, in some latitudes, as you think.
It stands to reason th' sea hereabouts is too cold for
mermaids ; for women here don't go half-naked on
account o' climate. But Pve been in lands where mus-
lin were too hot wear on land, and where the sea
were more than milk- warm ; and though I'd never the
good luck to see a mermaid in that latitude, I know
them that has."

*^ Do tell us about it," cried Mary.

** Pooh, pooh V^ said Job the naturalist.

Both speeches determined Will to go on with his

A TALE OV ICAKCHESTEB LIFE. 235

story. What could a fellow who had never been many
miles from home, know about the wonders of the deep,
that he should put him down in that way?

" Well, it were Jack Harris, our third mate, last voy-
age, as many and many a time telled us all about it.
You see he were becalmed off Chatham Island (that's
in the Great Pacific, and a warm enough latitude for
mermaids, and sharks, and such like perils). So some
of the men took the long boat, and pulled for the
island to see what it were like ; and when they got
near, they heard a puffing, like a creature come up to
take breath ; youVe never heard a diver? No ! Well I
you've heard folks in th' asthma, and it were for all
the world like that. So they looked around, and what
should they see but a mermaid, sitting on a rock, and
smming herself. The water is always warmer when
it's rough, you know, so I suppose in the calm she
felt it rather chilly, and had come up to warm her-
self."

" What was she like?' asked Mary, breathlessly.

Job took his pipe off the chimney-piece and began
to smoke with very audible puffs, as if the story were
not worth listening to.

** Oh I Jack used to say she was for aU the world as
beautiful as any of the wax ladies in the barber's shops;
only, Mary, there were one little difference : her hair
was bright grass green."

" I should not think that was pretty," said Mary,
hesitatingly ; as if not liking to doubt the perfection of
any thing belonging to such an acknowledged beauty.

236 MABY BABTON :

** Oh ! but it is when you're used to it. I always
think when first we get sight of land, there's no colour
so lovely as grass green. However, she had green hair
sure enough ; and were proud enough of it, too ; for
she were combing it out full-length when first they
saw her. They all thought she were a fair prize, and
may be as good £is a whale in ready money (they were
whale-fishers you know). For some folk think a deal
of mermaids, whatever other folk do." This was a hit
at Job, who retaliated in a series of sonorous spittings and
puffs.

" So, as I were saying, they pulled towards her, think-
ing to catch her. She were all the while combing her
beautiful hair, and beckoning to them, while with the
other hand she held a looking-glass."

" How many hands had she?" asked Job.

*' Two, to be sure, just like any other woman,*' an-
swered Will, indignantly.

" Oh ! I thought you said she beckoned with one
hand, and combed her hair with another, and held a
looking-glass with a third,'* said Job, with provoking
quietness.

" No ! I didn't ! at least if I did, I meant she did one
thing after another, as any one but" (here he mumbled
a word or two) "could understand. Well, Mary,"
turning very decidedly towards her ; " when she saw
them coming near, whether it were she grew frightened
at their fowling-pieces, as they had on board, for a bit
o' shooting on the island, or whether it were she were
just a fickle jade as did not rightly know her own mind

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 237

(which seeing one half of her was woman^ I think myself
was most probable), but when they were only about
two oars' length from the rock where she sat, down she
plopped into the water, leaving nothing but her hinder
end of a fish tail sticking up for a minute, and then
that disappeared too/'

" And did they never see her again?" asked Mary.

" Never so plain; the man who had the second watch
one night, declared he saw her swimming round the
ship, and holding up her glass for him to look in ; and
then he saw the Httle cottage near Aber in Wales
(where his wife lived) as plain as ever he saw it in life,
and his wife standing outside, shading her eyes as if
she were looking for him. But Jack Harris gave him
no credit, for he said he were always a bit of a ro-
mancer, and beside that, were a home-sick, down-hearted
chap."

*' I wish they had caught her," said Mary, musing,

'* They got one thing as belonged to her," replied
Will, " and that I've often seen with my own eyes,
and I reckon it's a sure proof of the truth of their
story ; for them that wants proof."

" What was it?" asked Margaret, almost anxious
her grandfather should be convinced.

" Why, in her hurry she left her comb on the rock,
and one o' the men spied it ; so they thought that were
better than nothing, and they rowed there and took
it, and Jack Harris had it on board the John Cropper,
and I saw him comb his hair with it every Sunday
morning."

238 HABT BABTON :

" Wliat was it like?" asked Mary^ eagerly ; her
imagination running on coral combs, studded mth
pearls.

** Why, if it had not had such a strange yam belong-
ing to it, you'd never ha' noticed it from any other small-
tooth comb."

'' I should rather think not," sneered Job Legh.

The sailor bit his lips to keep down his anger against
an old man. Margaret felt very uneasy, knowing her
grandfather so well, and not daring to guess what caus-
tic remark might come next to irritate the young sailor
guest.

Mary, however, was too much interested by the won-
ders of the deep to perceive the incredulity with which
Job Legh received Wilson's account of the mermaid ;
and when he left off, half offended, and very much in-
clined not to open his lips again through the evening,
she eagerly said,

** Oh do tell us something more of what you hear and
see on board ship. Do, Will !"

" What's the use, Mary, if folk won't believe one.
There are things I saw with my own eyes, that some
people would pish and pshaw at, as if I were a baby to
be put down by cross noises. But I'll tell you, Mary,"
with an emphasis on you^ " some more of the wonders
of the sea, sin' you're not too wise to believe me. I have
seen a fish fly."

This did stagger Mary. She had heard of mermaids
as signs of inns, and as sea-wonders, but never of
flying fish. Not so Job. He put down his pipe,

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LITE. 239

and nodding Iiis head as a token of approbation, he
said

" Ay, ay ! young man. Now you're speaking
truth."

"Well now! you'll swallow that, old gentleman.
You'll credit me when I say I've seen a crittur half
fish, half bird, and you won't credit me when I say
there be such beasts as mermaids^ half fish, half woman.
To me, one's just as strange as another."

" You never saw the mermaid yoursel," interposed
Margaret, gently. But " love me, love my dog," was
Will Wilson's motto, only his version was "believe
me, believe Jack Harris;" and the remark was not
80 soothing to him, as it was intended to have been.

** It's the Ezocetus ; one of the Malacopterygii
Abdominales," said Job, much interested.

" Ay, there you go! You're one o' them folks as
never knows beasts imless they're called out o' their
names. Put 'em in Sunday clothes and you know 'em,
but in their work-a-day English you never know
nought about 'em. I've met wi' many o' your kidney;
and if I'd ha known it, I'd ha christened poor Jack's
mermaid wi' some grand gibberish of a name. Mer-
maidicus Jack Harrisensis ; that's just like their new-
fangled words. D'ye believe there's such a thing as
the Mermaidicus, master?" asked Will, enjoying his
own joke uncommonly, as most people do.

" Not I ! Tell me about the—"

" Well!" said Will, pleased at having excited the
old gentleman's faith and credit at last. " It were on

240 HABY BABTON :

this last voyage, about a day's sail from Madeira, that
one of our men — "

'* Not Jack Harris, I hope," murmured Job.

** Called me," continued Will, not noticing the inter-
ruption, *' to see the what d'ye call it — flying fish I say
it is. It were twenty feet out o' water, and it flew near
on to a hundred yards. But I say, old gentleman, I
ha' gotten one dried, and if you'll take it, why I'll give
it you ; only," he added, in a lower tone, ^^ I'd wish
you'd just gie me credit for the Mermaidicus."

I really believe if the assuming faith in the story of
the mermaid had been made the condition of receiving
the flying fish, Job Legh, sincere man as he was, would
have pretended belief; he was so much delighted at the
idea of possessing this specimen. He won the sailor's
heart by getting up to shake both his hands in his ve-
hement gratitude, puzzling poor old Alice, who yet
smiled through her wonder; for she understood the
action to indicate some kindly feeling towards her
nephew.

Job wanted to prove his gratitude, and was puzzled
how to do it. He feared the young man would not
appreciate any of his duplicate Araneides; not even the
great American Mygale, one of his most precious trea-
sures; or 'else he would gladly have bestowed any du-
plicate on the donor of a real dried Exocetus. What
could he do for him? He could ask Margaret to sing.
Other folks beside her old doating grandfather thought
a deal of her songs. So Margaret began some of her
noble old-fashioned songs. She knew no modem music

A TALE OF HAKCHE8TEB LIFE. 241

for which her auditors might have been thankful, but
she poured her rich voice out in some of the old canzo-
nets she had lately learnt while accompanying the mu-
sical lecturer on his tour.

Mary was amused to see how the yoimg sailor sat
entranced; mouth, eyes, all open, in order to catch
every breath of sound. His very lids refused to wink,
as if afraid in that brief proverbial interval to lose a
particle of the rich music that floated through the room.
For the first time the idea crossed Mary's mind that it
was possible the plain little sensible Margaret, so prim
and demure, might have power over the heart of the
handsome, dashing, spirited Will Wilson.

Job, too, was rapidly changing his opinion of his new
guest. The flying fish went a great way, and his un-
disguised admiration for Margaret's singing carried him
still further.

It was amusing enough to see these two, within the
hour so barely civil to each other, endeavouring now to
be ultra-agreeable. Will, as soon as he had taken breath
(a long, deep gasp of admiration) after Margaret's song,
sidled up to Job, and asked him in a sort of doubting tone,

" You wouldn't like a live Manx cat, would ye,
master ?"

" A what ?" exclaimed Job.

" I don't know its best name," said Will, humbly.
** But we call 'em just Manx cats. They're cats with-
out tails."

Now Job, in all his natural history, had never heard of
such animals ; so Will continued,

VOL. I. R

242 MABY BARTON:

*^ Because Pm going afore joining my sHp, to see
mother's friends in the island, and I would gladly bring
you one, if so be you'd like to have it. They look as
queer, and out o' nature as flying fish, or" — ^he gulped
the words down that should have followed. " Especially
when you see 'em walking a roof-top, right again the
sky, when a cat, as is a proper cat, is sure to stick her
tail stiff out behind, like a slack-rope dancer a-balancing;
but these cats having no tail, cannot stick it out, which
captivates some people uncommonly. If yo'll allow me,
I'll bring one for Miss there," jerking his head at Mar-
garet. Job assented with grateful curiosity, wishing
much to see the tail-less phenomenon,

" When are you going to sail ?" asked Mary.

" I cannot justly say ; our ship's bound for America
next voyage, they tell me. A mess-mate will let me
know when her sailing-day is fixed; but I've got to go
to th' Isle o' Man first. I promised unde last time I
were in England to go this next time. I may have to
hoist the blue Peter any day; so, make much of me
while you have me, Mary."

Job asked him if he had ever been in America.

" Haven't I? North and South both! This time
we're bound to North. Yankee-Land, as we call it,
where Uncle Sam Uves."

" Uncle who?" said Mary.

" Oh, it's a way sailors have of speaking. I only mean
I'm going to Boston, U. S., that's Uncle Sam. "

Mary did not imderstand, so she left him, and went
to sit by Alice, who could not hear conversation unless

A TALE OF MAKCHE8TEB LIFE. 243

expressly addressed to her. She had sat patiently silent
the greater part of the night, and now greeted Mary
with a qxiiet smile*

** Where's yo'r father?" asked she.

'' I guess he's at his Union ; he's there most even-
ings.

Alice shook her head; but whether it were that she
did not hear, or that she did not quite approve of what
fihe heard, Mary could not make out. She sat silently
watching Alice, and regretting over her dimmed and
veiled eyes^ formerly so bright and speaking ; as if Alice
understood by some other sense what was passing in
Mary's mind, she tiimed suddenly round, and answered
Mary's thought.

" Yo'ie mourning for me, my dear; and there's no
need, Mary. I'm as happy as a child. I sometimes
think I am a child, whom the Lord is hushabying to
my long sleep. For when I were a nurse-girl, my missis
alway telled me to speak very soft and low, and to
darken the room that her little one might go to sleep;
and now all noises are hushed and still to me, and the
bonny earth seems dim and dark, and I know it's my
Father lulling me away to my long sleep. Pm very
well content, and yo mustn't ftet for me. I've had well
nigh every blessing in life I could desire."

Mary thought of Alice's long-cherished, fond wish to

revisit the home of her childhood, so often and often

deferred, and now probably never to take place. Or if

it did, how changed from the fond anticipation of what

r2

244 MABY B ABTON :

it was to have been I It would be a mockery to tbe
blind and deaf Alice.

The evening came quickly to an end. There was
the humble cheerfiil meal, and then the bustling merry
farewell, and Mary was once more in the quietness and
solitude of her own dingy, dreary-looking home ; her
father still out, the fire extinguished, and her evening's
task of work lying all undone upon the dresser. But
it had been a pleasant little interlude to think upon. It
had distracted her attention for a few hours from the
pressure of many uneasy thoughts, of the dark^
heavy, oppressive times, when sorrow and want seemed
to surround her on every side ; of her father, his
changed and altered looks, telling so plainly of
broken health, and an embittered heart; of the
morrow, and the morrow beyond that, to be spent
in that close monotonous work-room, with Sally Lead-
bitter's odious whispers hissing in her ear ; and of the
hunted look, so full of dread, from Miss Simmonds'
door-step up and down the street, lest her persecuting
lover should be near: for he lay in wait for her with
wonderful perseverance, and of late had made himself
almost hateful, by the unmanly force which he had
used to detain her to listen to him, and the indifierence
with which he exposed her to the remarks of the
passers-by, any one of whom might circulate reports
which it would be terrible for her father to hear — ^and
worse than death should they reach Jem Wilson. And
all this she had drawn upon herself by her giddy

A TALE OF HANCHE8TEB LIFE. 245

flirting. Oh I how she loathed the recollection of the
hot summer evening, when, worn out by stitching, and
sewing, she had loitered homewards with weary languor,
and first listened to the voice of the tempter.

And Jem Wilson ! Oh, Jem, Jem, why did you not
come to receive some of the modest looks and words of
love -which Mary longed to give you, to try and make
up for the hasty rejection which you as hastily took to
be final, though both mourned over it with many tears.
But day after day passed away, and patience seemed of
no avail ; and Mary's cry was ever the old moan of the
Moated Grange,

" Why comes he not," she said,
" I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead."

246 HABT BABTOK :

CHAPTER XIV.

*' Enow the temptation ere yon judge the crime !
Look on this tree — 'twas green, and fair, and graceful ;
Yet now, saye these few shoots, how dry and rotten I
Thou canst not tell the cause. Not long ago»
A neighbour oak, with which its roots were'twined.
In falling wrenched them with such cruel force,
That though we coyered them again with care,
Its beauty withered, and it pined away.
So, could we look into the human breast.
How oft the fatal blight that meets our view,
Should we trace down to the torn, bleeding fibres
Of a too trusting heart — ^where it were shame,
For pitying tears, to give contempt or blame."

* Street Walks.'

The month was over ; — ^the honeymoon to the newly-
married ; the exquisite convalescencje to the *' living
mother of a living child ;" the " first dark days of
nothingness" to the widow and the child-bereaved ; the
term of penance, of hard labour, and solitary confine-
ment, to the shrinking, shivering, hopeless prisoner.

" Sick, and in prison, and ye visited me." Shall
you, or I, receive such blessing? I know one who
will. An overseer of a foundry, an aged man, with
hoary hair, has spent his Sabbaths, for many years, in

A TALE OF MANC^STEB LIFE. 247

visitmg the prisoners and tlie afflicted, in Manchester
New Bailey ; not merely advising, and comforting, but
putting means into their power of regaining the virtue
and the peace they had lost ; becoming himself their
guarantee in obtaining employment, and never deserting
those who have once asked help from him.''^

Esther's term of imprisonment was ended. She re-
ceived a good character in the governor's books ; she
had picked her daily quantity of oakum, had never
deserved the extra punishment of the tread-mill, and
had been civil and decorous in her language. And
once more she was out of prison. The door closed
behind her with a ponderous clang, and in her desola-
tion she felt as if shut out of home — from the only
shelter she could meet with, houseless and pennyless as
she was, on that dreary day.

But it was but for an instant that she stood there
doubting. One thought had haunted her both by night
and by day, with monomaniacal incessancy ; and that
thought was how to save Mary (her dead sister's only
child, her own little pet in the days of her innocence) from
following in the same downward path to vice. To
whom could she speak and ask for aid? She shrank
from the idea of addressing John Barton again ; her
heart sank within her, at the remembrance of his
fierce repulsing action, and far fiercer words. It
seemed worse than death to reveal her condition to
Mary, else she sometimes thought that this course

* Vide Manchester Guardian, of Wednesdaj, March 18, 1846;
and also the Beports of Captain Williams, prison inspector.

248 HABY BABTON :

would be the most terrible, the most efficient warn-
ing. She must speak; to that she was soul-com-
pelled; but to whom? She dreaded addressing any of
her former female acquaintance, even supposing they
had sense, or spirit, or interest enough to undertake her
mission.

To whom shall the outcast prostitute tell her tale !
Who will give her help in her day of need? Hers is
the leper-sin, and all stand aloof dreading to be counted
unclean.

In her wild night wanderings, she had noted the
haunts and habits of many a one who little thought of
a watcher in the poor forsaken woman. You may
easily imagine that a double interest was attached by
her, to the ways and companionships of those with
whom she had been acquainted in the days, which,
when present, she had considered liardly-worked and
monotonous, but which now in retrospection seemed so
happy and unclouded. Accordingly, she had, as we
have seen, known where to meet with John Barton on
that unfortunate night, which had only produced irri-
tation in liim, and a month's imprisonment to her.
She had also observed that he was still intimate with
the Wilsons. She had seen him walking and talking^
with both father and son; her old friends too; and she
had shed unregarded, unvalued tears, when some one
had casually told her of George Wilson's sudden death.
It now flashed across her mind, that to the son, to Mary's
play-fellow, her elder brother in the days of childhood,
her tale might be told, and listened to with interest,.

A TALE OF liANGHESTEB LIFE. 249

and some mode of action suggested by him by which
Mary might be guarded and saved.

All these thoughts had passed through her mind
while yet she was in prison ; so when she was turned
out, her purpose was clear, and she did not feel her de-
solation of freedom as she would otherwise have done.

That night she stationed herself early near the foundry
where she knew Jem worked ; he stayed later than usual,
being detained by some arrangements for the morrow.
She grew tired and impatient; many workmen had
come out of the door in the long, dead, brick wall, and
eagerly had she peered into their faces, deaf to all insult
or curse. He must have gone home early ; one more
turn in the street, and she would go.

During that turn he came out, and in the quiet of that
street of workshops, and warehouses, she directly heard
his steps. Now her heart failed her for an instant; but
still she was not daunted from her purpose, painful as
its fulfilment was sure to be. She laid her hand on his
arm. As she expected, after a momentary glance at the
person who thus endeavoured to detain him, he made an
effort to shake it off, and pass on. But trembling as
she was, the had provided against this, by a firm and
unusual grasp.

"You must listen to me, Jem Wilson," she said,
with almost an accent of command.

" Go away, missis ; Pve nought to do with you,
either in hearkening, or talking."

He made another struggle.

250 MABT BABTON :

" Tou must listen/' she said again, authoritatiyelyi
" for Mary Barton's sake."

The spell of her name was as potent as that of the
mariner's glittering eye. '^ He listened like a three-year
child."

" I know you care enough for her to wish to save her
£rom harm."

He interrupted his earnest gaze into her face, with
the exclamation —

" And who can yo be to know Mary Barton, or to
know that she's ought to me?"

There was a strife in Esther's mind for an instant,
between the shame of acknowledging herself, and the
additional weight to her revelation which such acknow-
ledgment would give. Then she spoke.

" Do you remember Esther, the sister of John Bar-
ton's wife? the aunt to Mary? And the Valentine I
sent you last February ten years?"

" Yes, I mind her well ! But yo are not Esther, are
you?" He looked again into her face, and seeing that
indeed it was his boyhood's friend, he took her hand,
and shook it with a cordiality that forgot the present in
the past.

*^ Why, Esther ! Where han ye been this many a
year? Where han ye been wandering that we none
of us could find you out?"

The question was asked thoughtlessly, but answered
with fierce earnestness.

" Where have I been? What have I been doing?

A TALE OF UAHCHESTEB LITE. 251

Why do you tonnent me with questions like these?
Can you not guess? But the story of my life is wanted
to give force to my speech, afterwards I will tell it you.
Nay ! don't change your fickle mind now^ and say you
don't want to hear it You must hear it, and I must
tell it; and then see after Mary, and take care she does
not become like me. As she is loving now, so did I
love once ; one above me fax" She remarked not, in her
own absorption, the change in Jem^s breathing, the
sudden clutch at the wall which told the fearfully vivid
interest he took in what she said. '' He was so hand-
some^ so kind! Well, the regiment was ordered
to Chester (did I tell you he was an officer?), and he
could not bear to part £rom me, nor I from him,
so he took me with him. I never thought poor Mary
would have taken it so to heart ! I always meant to
send for her to pay me a visit when I was married; for^
mark you I he promised me marriage. They all do.
Then came three years of happiness. I suppose I ought
not to have beeii happy, but I was. I had a little girl,
too. Oh I the sweetest darling that ever was seen I
But I must not think of her," putting her hand wildly
up to her forehead, " or I shall go mad; I shall."

" Don't tell me any more about yoursel," said Jem,
soothingly.

** What! you're tired already, are you? but I'll tell
you; as youVe asked for it, you shall hear it. I won't
recall the agony of the past for nothing. I will have the
relief of telling it. Oh, how happy I was!" — sinking
her voice into a plaintive child-like manner. '* It came

252 HABY BABTON :

like a shot on me "when one day lie came to me and told
me lie was ordered to Ireland, and must leave me be-
hind ; at Bristol we then were."

Jem muttered some words; she caught their meaning,
and in a pleading voice continued,

'* Oh, don't abuse him; don't speak a word against
him ! You don't know how I love him yet; yet, when
I am sunk so low. You don't guess how kind he was.
He gave me fifty pound before we parted, and I know
he could ill spare it. Don't Jem, please," as his mut-
tered indignation rose again. For her sake he ceased.
" I might have done better with the money; I see now.
But I did not know the value of money. Formerly
I had earned it easily enough at the factory, and as I
had no more sensible wants, I spent it on dress and on
eating. While I lived with him, I had it for asking;
and fifty pounds would, I thought, go a long way.
So I went back to Chester, where Pd been so happy,
and set up a small-ware shop, and hired a room near.
We should have done well, but alas ! alas ! my little
girl fell ill, and I could not mind my shop and her too;
and things grew worse and worse. I sold my goods
any how to get money to buy her food and medicine; I
wrote over and over again to her father for help, but
he must have changed his quarters, for I never got an
answer. The landlord seized the few bobbins and tapes
I had left, for shop-rent; and the person to whom the
mean little room, to which we had been forced to re-
move, belonged, threatened to turn us out unless his
rent was paid; it had nm on many weeks, and it was.

A TALE OF IfANCHESTER LIFE. 253

■winter, cold bleak winter; and my child was so ill, so
ill, and I was starving. And I could not bear to see
lier suffer, and forgot how much better it would be for
us to die together; — oh her moans, her moans, which
money would give me the means of relieving ! So I
"went out into the street, one January night — Do you
think Grod will punish me for that?" she asked with
wild vehemence, almost amounting to insanity, and
shaking Jem's arm in order to force an answer from
him.

But before he could shape his heart's sympathy into
words, her voice had lost its wildness, and she spoke
with the quiet of despair.

" But it's no matter ! I've done that since, which
separates us as far asunder as heaven and hell can be."
Her voice rose again to the sharp pitch of agony.
" My darling ! my darling ! even after death I may not
see thee, my own sweet one ! She was so good — like
a little angel. What is that text, I don't remember, —
that text mother used to teach me when I sat on her
knee long ago ; it begins * Blessed are the pure ' " —

*' Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see
God."

"Ay that's it! It would break mother's heart
if she knew what I am now — ^it did break Mary's heart,
you see. And now I recollect it was about her child
I wanted so to see you, Jem. You know Mary Barton,
don't you?" said she, trying to collect her thoughts.

Yes, Jem knew her. How well, his beating heart
could testify !

254 HABT BABTON :

*' Well, there's something to do for her ; I forget
what ; wait a minute ! She is so like my little girl ;"
said she, rdsing her eyes, glistening with unshed tears^
in search of the sympathy of Jem's countenance.

He deeply pitied her ; but oh I how he longed to
recall her mind to the subject of Mary, and the lover
above her in rank, and the service to be done for her
sake. But he controlled himself to silence. After
awhile, she spoke again, and in a calmer voice.

*• When I came to Manchester (for I could not stay
in Chester after her death)^ I found you all out very
soon. And yet I never thought my poor sister was
dead. I suppose I would not think so. I used to
watch about the court where John lived, for many and
many a night, and gather all I could about them from
the neighbours' talk ; for I never asked a question.
I put this and that together, and followed one, and
listened to the other ; many's the time I've watched
the policeman off his beat, and peeped through the
chink of the window-shutter to see the old room, and
sometimes Mary or her father sitting up late for some
reason or another. I found out Mary went to leam
dress-making, and I began to be frightened for her ;
for it's a bad life for a girl to be out late at night in the
streets, and, after many an hour of weary work, they're
ready to follow after any novelty that makes a little
change. But I made up my mind, that bad as I
was, I could watch over Mary and perhaps keep her from
harm. So I used to wait for her at nights, and follow
her home, often when she little knew any one was near

A TALE OF HAKGHE8TEB LIFE. 255

her. There was one of her companions I never could
abide, and I'm sure that girl is at the bottom of some
mischief. By-and-bye^ Mary's walks homewards were
not alone. She was joined soon after she came out,
by a man ; a gentleman. I began to fear for her, for
I saw she was light-hearted, and pleased with his
attentions ; and I thought worse of him for having
such long talks with that bold girl I told you of. But
I was laid up for a long time with spitting of blood ;
and could do nothing. I'm sure it made me worse,
thinking about what might be happening to Mary.
And when I came out, all was going on as before, only
she seemed fonder of him than ever ; and oh Jem !
her father won't^ listen to me, and it's you must save
Mary ! You're like a brother to her, and maybe could
give her advice and watch over her, and at any rate
John wiQ hearken to you ; only he's so stem and so
cruel." She began to cry a little at the remembrance
of his harsh words; but Jem cut her short by his
hoarse, stem inquiry,

" Who is this spark that Mary loves? Tell me his
name 1"

** It's young Carson, old Carson's son, that your father
worked for."

There was a pause. She broke the silence.

" Oh I Jem, I charge you with the care of her ! I
suppose it would be murder to kill her, but it would be
better for her to die than to live to lead such a life as I
do. Do you hear me, Jem ?"

256 MABT BARTON :

" Yes ! I hear you. It would be better. Better we
were all dead." This was said as if thinking aloud;
but he immediately changed his tone, and continued,

" Esther, you may trust to my doing all I can for
Mary. That I have determined on. And now listen
to me ! you loathe the life you lead, else you would not
speak of it as you do. Come home with me. Come to
my mother. She and my aunt Alice live together. I
will see that they give you a welcome. And to-morrow
I will see if some honest way of living cannot be found
for you. Come home with me."

She was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had
gained his point. Then she said,

'* God bless you, Jem, for the words you have just
spoken. Some years ago you might have saved me, as
I hope and trust you will yet save Mary. But it is too
late now; — too late,*' she added, with accents of deep
despair.

Still he did not relax his hold. " Come home,*' he said.

^* I tell you, I cannot. I could not lead a virtu-
ous life if I would. I should only disgrace you. If
you will know all," said she, as he still seemed inclined
to urge her, " I must have drink. Such as live like me
could not bear life if they did not drink. It's the only
thing to keep us from suicide. If we did not drink, we
could not stand the memory of what we have been, and
the thought of what we are, for a day. If I go without
food, and without shelter, I must have my dram. Oh !
you don't know the awful nights I have had in prison

"^

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 257

for want of it !" said she, shuddering, and glaring round
with terrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual
creature, with dim form, near her.

" It is so frightful to see them," whispering in tones of
wildness, although so low spoken. " There they go
round and round my bed the whole night through.
My mother, carrying little Annie (I wonder how they
got together) and Mary — and all looking at me with
their sad, stony eyes; oh Jem ! it is so terrible ! They
don't turn back either, but pass behind the head of the
bed, and I feel their eyes on me everywhere. If I creep
under the clothes I still see them; and what is worse,"
hissing out her words with fright, " they see me. Don't
speak to me of leading a better life — I must have drink.
I cannot pass to-night without a dram ; I dare not."

Jem was silent from deep sympathy. Oh ! could he,
then^ do nothingTor her ! She spoke again, but in a less
excited tone, although it was thrillingly earnest.

** You are grieved for me ! I know it better than if
you told me in words. But you can do nothing for me.
I am past hope. You can yet save Mary. You must.
She is innocent, except for the great error of loving one
above her in station. Jem ! you will save her ?"

With heart and soul, though in few words, Jem pro-
mised that if aught earthly could keep her from falling,
he would do it. Then she blessed him, and bade him
good-night.

" Stay a minute," said he, as she was on the
point of departure. '*! may want to speak to you

VOL. I. S

258 MABT BABTON :

again. I mun know where to find you — ^where do
you live ?'*

She laughed strangely. " And do you think one
sunk so low as I am has a home? Decent, good people
have homes. We have none. No, if you want me,
come at night, and look at the comers of the streets
about here. The colder, the bleaker, the more stormy
the night, the more certain you will be to find me. For
then," she added, with a plaintive fall in her voice, " it is
so cold sleeping in entries, and on door-steps, and I
want a dram more than ever."

Again she rapidly turned off*, and Jem also went on his
way. But before he reached the end of the street, even
in the midst of the jealous anguish that filled his heart,
his conscience smote him. He had not done enough to
save her. One more effort, and she might have come.
Nay, twenty efforts would have been well rewarded by
her yielding. He turned back, but she was gone. In
the tumult of his other feelings, his self-reproach was
deadened for the time. But many and many a day
afterwards he bitterly regretted his omission of duty ;
his weariness of well-doing.

Now, the great thing was to reach home, and soli-
tude. Mary loved another ! Oh ! how should he bear
it ? He had thought her rejection of him a hard trial,
but that was nothing now. He only remembered it, to
be thankful he had not yielded to the temptation of
trying his fate again, not in actual words, but in a
meeting, where her manner should tell fer more than

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 259

words, that her sweeter smiles, her dainty movements,
her pretty household ways, were all to be reserved to
gladden another's eyes and heart. And he must live
on ; that seemed the strangest. That a long life (and he
knew men did live long, even with deep, biting, sorrow
corroding at their hearts) must be spent without Mary;
xiay, with the consciousness she was another's ! That
hell of thought he would reserve for the quiet of his
own room, the dead stillness of night. He was on the
threshold of home now.

He entered. There were the usual faces, the usual
aghts. He loathed them, and then he cursed himself
because he loathed them. His mother's love had taken
a cross turn, because he had kept the tempting supper
she had prepared for him waiting until it was nearly
spoilt. Alice, her dulled senses deadening day by day,
sat mutely near the fire; her happiness, bounded by the
circle of the consciousness of the presence of her foster
child, knowing that his voice repeated what was passing
to her deafened ear, that his arm removed each little
obstacle to her tottering steps. And Will, out of the
very kindness of his heart, talked more and more merrily
than ever. He saw Jem was downcast, and fa^icied his
rattling might cheer him; at any rate, it drowned his
aunt's muttered grumblings, and in some measure con-
cealed the blank of the evening. At last, bed-time
came ; and Will withdrew to his neighbouring lodging ;
and Jane and AUce Wilson had raked the fire, and
fastened doors and shutters, and pattered up stairs, with
their tottering foot-steps, and shrill voices. Jem, too^

s2

260 MARYBABTON:

went to the closet termed his bed- room. There was no
bolt to the door ; but by one strong eflfort of his right
arm, a heavy chest was moved against it, and he could
sit down on the side of his bed, and think.

Mary loved another ! That idea would rise upper-
most in his mind, and had to be combated in all its
forms of pain. It was, perhaps, no great wonder that she
should prefer one, so much above Jem in the external
things of Kfe. But the gentleman; why did he, with
his range of choice, among the ladies of the land, why
did he stoop down to carry off the poor man's darling ?
With all the glories of the garden at his hand, why did
he prefer to cull the wild-rose, — Jem's own fragrant
wild-rose ?

His oion I Oh ! never now his own ! — Gone for
evermore !

Then uprose the guilty longing for blood! — ^The
frenzy of jealousy ! — Some one should die. He would
rather Mary were dead, cold in her grave, than that
she were another's. A vision of her pale, sweet face,
with her bright hair, all bedabbled with gore, seemed
to float constantly before his aching eyes. But hers
were ever open, and contained, in their soft, deathly
look, such mute reproach ! What had she done to de-
serve such cruel treatment from him ? She had been
wooed by one, whom Jem knew to be handsome, gay,
and bright, and she had given him her love. That was
all! It was the wooer, who should die. Yes, die,
knowing the cause of his death. Jem pictured him
(and gloated on the picture), lying smitten, yet con-

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 261

ficious ; and listening to the upbraiding accusation of
his murderer. How he had left his own rank, and
dared to love a maiden of low degree; and— oh ! sting-
ing agony of all — ^how she, in return, had loved him !
Then the other nature spoke up, and bade him remem-
ber the anguish he should so prepare for Mary ! At
first he refused to listen to that better voice ; or listened
only to pervert. He would glory in her wailing grief !
he would take pleasure in her desolation of heart !

No! he could not, said the still small voice. It
would be worse, far worse to have caused such woe,
than it was now to bear his present heavy burden.

But it was too heavy, too grievous to be borne, and
live. He would slay himself, and the lovers should
love on, and the sun shine bright, and he with his
burning, woeful heart would be at rest. *' Rest that is
reserved for the people of God."

Had he not promised with such earnest purpose of
soul, as makes words more solemn than oaths, to save
Mary from becoming such as Esther? Should he
shrink from the duties of Ufe, into the cowardliness of
death? Who would then guard Mary, with her love,
and her innocence? Would it not be a goodly thing
to serve her, although she loved him not; to be her
preserving angel, through the perils of Kfe; and she,
unconscious all the while ?

He braced up his soul, and said to himself, that with
God's help he would be that earthly keeper.

And now the mists and the storms seemed clearing
away from his path, though it still was full of stinging

262 MART BARTON :

thorns. Having done the duty nearest to Lim (of re-
ducing the tumult of his own heart to something like
order), the second became more plain before him.

Poor Esther**s experience had led her, perhaps, too
hastily to the conclusion, that Mr. Carson's intentions
were evil towards Mary; at least she had given no just
ground for the fears she entertained that such was the
case. It was possible, nay, to Jem's heart, very proba-
ble, that he might only be too happy to marry her.
She was a lady by right of nature, Jem thought ; in
movement, grace, and spirit; what was birth to a Man-
chester manufacturer, many of whom glory, and jusdy
too, in being the architects of their own fortunes?
And, as fax as wealth was concerned, judging another
by himself, Jem could only imagine it a great privily
to lay it at the feet of the loved one. Harry Carson's
mother had been a factory girl ; so, after all, what was
the great reason for doubting his intentions towards
Mary?

There might probably be some little awkwardness
about the afl&.ir at first : Mary's father having such strong
prejudices on the one hand ; and something of the same
kind being likely to exist on the part of Mr. Carson's
family. But Jem knew he had power over John Bar-
ton's mind ; and it would be something to exert that
power in promoting Mary's happiness, and to relinquish
all thought of self in so doing.

Oh ! why had Esther chosen him for this office ? It
was beyond his strength to act rightly! Why had
she singled him out ?

A TALB OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 263

The answer came when he was calm enough to listen
for it. Because Mary had no other friend capable of
the duty required of him ; the duty of a brother, as
Esther imagined him to be in feeling, from his long
fiiendship. He would be imto her as a brother.

As such, he ought to ascertain Harry Carson's in-
tentions towards her in winning her aflfections. He
would ask him, straightforwardly, as became man speak-
ing to man, not concealing, if need were, the interest
he felt in Mary.

Then, with the resolve to do his duty to the best of
his power, peace came into his soul ; he had left the
windy storm and tempest behind.

Two hours before day-dawn he fell asleep.

264 MABY BABTON :

CHAPTER XV.

'* Wliat thoughtful heart can look into this gulf
That darkly yawns 'twixt rich and poor,
And not find food for saddest meditation !
Can see, without a pang of keenest grief.
Them fiercely battling (like some natural foes)
Whom God had made, with help and sympathy,
To stand as brothers, side by side, united I
Where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf.
And bind them once again in trust and love ?"

* Love-Truths.*

We must return to John Barton. Poor John ! He
never got over his disappointing journey to London.
The deep mortification he then experienced (with, per-
haps, as Kttle selfishness for its cause as mortification,
ever had), was of no temporary nature; indeed few of
his feelings were.

Then came a long period of bodily privation; of
daily hunger after food ; and though he tried to persuade
himself he could bear want himself with stoical indiffer-
ence, and did care about it as little as most men, yet
the body took its revenge for its uneasy feelings. The
mind became soured and morose, and lost much of its
equipoise. It was no longer elastic, as in the days of

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 265

youtb, or in times of comparative happiness; it ceased
to hope. And it is hard to live on when one can no
longer hope.

The same state of feeling which John Barton enter-
tained, if belonging to one who had had leisure to
think of such things, and physicians to give names to
them, would have been called monomania ; so haunting,
so incessant, were the thoughts that pressed upon him.
I have somewhere read a forcibly described punishment
among the Italians, worthy of a Borgia. The sup-
posed or real criminal was shut up in a room, supplied
with every convenience and luxury ; and at first
mourned little over his imprisonment. But day by
day he became aware that the space between the walls
of his apartment was narrowing, and then he understood
the end. Those painted walls would come into hideous
nearness, and at last crush the life out of him.

And so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the dis-
eased thoughts of John Barton. They excluded the
light of heaven, the cheering sounds of earth. They
were preparing his death.

It is true, much of their morbid power might be
ascribed to the use of opium. But before you blame too
harshly this use, or rather abuse, try a hopeless life, with
daily cravings of the body for food. Try, not alone
being without hope yourself, but seeing all around you
reduced to the same despair, arising from the same cir-
cumstances ; all around you telling (though they use
no words or language), by their looks and feeble ac-
tions, that they are suffering and sinking under the

HABT BABTON :

pressure of want. Would you not be glad to forget
life, and its burdens? And opium gives forgetfulness
for a time.

It is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for
their oblivion ; but can you expect the uneducated to
count the cost of their whistle? Poor wretches ! They
pay a heavy price. Days of oppressive weariness and
languor, whose realities have the feeble sickliness of
dreams; nights, whose dreams are fierce realities of
agony ; sinking health, tottering frames, incipient mad*
ness, and worse, the consciousness of incipient madness;
this is the price of their whistle. But have you taught
them the science of consequences ?

John Barton's overpowering thought, which was to
work out his fate on earth, was rich and poor; why
are they so separate, so distinct, when God has made
them all? It is not His will, that their interests are so
far apart. Whose doing is it ?

And so on into the problems and mysteries of life,
until, bewildered and lost, unhappy and suffering, the
only feeling that remained clear and undisturbed in the
tumult of his heart, was hatred to the one class and
keen sympathy with the other.

But what availed his sympathy? No education had
given him wisdom ; and without wisdom, even love,
with all its effects, too often works but harm. He acted
to the best of his judgment, but it was a widely-
erring judgment.

The actions of the uneducated seem to me typi-
fied in those of Frankenstein^ that monster of many

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 267

human qualities, ungifted with a soul, a knowledge of
the difference between good and evil.

The people rise up to Ufe; they irritate us, they ter-
rify us, and we become their enemies. Then, in the
sorrowful moment of our triumphant power, their eyes
gaze on us with a mute reproach. Why have we made
them what they are; a powerful monster, yet without
the inner means for peace and happiness?

John Barton became a Chartist, a Communist, all that
is commonly called wild and visionary. Ay ! but be-
ing visionary is something. It shows a eoul, a being
not altogether sensual ; a creature who looks forward
for others, if not for himself.

And with all his weakness he had a sort of practical
power, which made him useful to the bodies of men to
whom he belonged. He had a ready kind of rough
Lancashire eloquence, arising out of the fulness of his
heart, which was very stirring to men similarly circum-
stanced, who liked to hear their feelings put into words.
He had a pretty clear head at times, for method and
arrangement; a necessary talent to large combinations
of men. And what perhaps more than all made him
relied upon and valued, was the consciousness which
every one who came in contact with him felt, that he
was actuated by no selfish motives ; that his class, his
order, was what he stood by, not the rights of his own
paltry self. For even in great and noble men, as soon
as self comes into prominent existence, it becomes a mean
and paltry thing.

A little time before this, there had come one of those

268 MART BARTON :

occasions for deliberation among the employed, which
deeply interested John Barton; and the discussions con-
cerning which had caused his frequent absence from
home of late.

I am not sure if I can express myself in the tech-
nical terms of either masters or workmen, but I will
try simply to state the case on which the latter deli-
berated.

An order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign
market. It was a large order, giving employment to
all the mills engaged in that species of manufacture :
but it was necessary to execute it speedily, and at as low
prices as possible, as the masters had reason to believe
a duplicate order had been sent to one of the continental
manufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions
on food, no taxes on building or machinery, and where
consequently they dreaded that the goods could be made
at a much lower price than they could afford them for;
and that, by so acting and charging, the rival manufac-
tures would obtain undivided possession of the market.
It was clearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and
to beat down wages as low as possible. And in the long
run the interests of the workmen would have been
thereby benefited. Distrust each other as they may,
the employers and the employed must rise or fall to-
gether. There may be some difference as to chrono-
logy, none as to fact.

But the masters did not choose to make all these
facts known. They stood upon being the masters, and

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 269

that they had a right to older work at their own prices,
and they believed that in the present depression of trade,
and unemployment of hands, there would be no great
difficulty in getting it done.

Now let us turn to the workmen^s view of the question.
The masters (of the tottering foundation of whose pros-
perity they were ignorant) seemed doing well, and like
gentlemen, ** lived at home in ease," while they were
starving, gasping on from day to day ; and there was a
foreign order to be executed, the extent of which, large
as it was, was greatly exaggerated; and it was to bo
done speedily. Why were the masters offering such low
wages under these circumstances? Shame upon them ! It
was taking advantage of their work-people being almost
starved ; but they would starve entirely rather than come
into such terms. It was bad enough to be poor, while by
the labour of their thin hands, the sweat of their brows,
the masters were made rich ; but they would not be utterly
ground down to dust. No ! they would fold their hands,
and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whom even in
death they could baffle. With Spartan endurance they
determined to let the employers know their power, by
refusing to work.

So class distrusted class, and their want of mutual con-
fidence wrought sorrow to both. The masters would not
be bullied, and compelled to reveal why they felt it wisest
and best to offer only such low wages; they would not be
made to tell that they were even sacrificing capital to ob-
tain a decisive victory over the continental manufac-

270 MART BABTON :

turers. And the workmen sat silent and stem with
folded hands refusing to work for such pay. There was
a strike in Manchester.

Of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences.
Many other Trades' Unions, connected with different
branches of business, supported with money, counte-
nance, and encouragement of every kind, the stand
which the Manchester power-loom weavers were making
against their masters. Delegates from Glasgow, from
Nottingham, and other towns, were sent to Manchester,
to keep up the spirit of resistance ; a committee was
formed, and all the requisite officers elected ; chairman,
treasurer, honorary secretary : — among them was John
Barton.

The masters, meanwhile, took their measures. They
placarded the walls with advertisements for power-loom
weavers. The workmen repUed by a placard in still
larger letters, stating their grievances. The masters
met daily in town, to mourn over the time (so fast
slipping away) for the fulfilment of the foreign orders ;
and to strengthen each other in their resolution not to
yield. K they gave up now, they might give up
always. It would never do. And amongst the most
energetic of the masters, the Carsons, father and son,
took their places. It is well known, that there is no
religionist so zealous as a convert ; no masters so stem,
and regardless of the interests of their work-people, as
those who have risen from such a station themselves.
This would account for the elder Mr. Carson's deter-
mination not to be buUied into yielding ; not even to

A TALE OF MAKGHE8TEB LIFE. 271

be bullied Into giving reasons for acting as the masters
did. It was the employer's will, and that should be
enough for the employed* Harry Carson did not trouble
himself much about the grounds for his conduct. He
liked the excitement of the afiair. He liked the atti-
tude of resistance. He was brave, and he liked the
idea of personal danger, with which some of the more
cautious tried to intimidate the violent among the
masters.

Meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the
more remote parts of Lancashire, and the neighbouring
counties, heard of the masters' advertisement for work-
men ; and in their solitary dwellings grew weary of
starvation, and resolved to come to Manchester. Foot-
sore, way-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as
they tried to steal into town in the early dawn, before
people were astir, or late in the dusk of evening. And
now began the real wrong-doing of the Trades' Unions.
As to their decision to work, or not, at such a particular
rate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all error
of judgment at the worst. But they had no right to
tyrannise over others, and tie them down to their own
Procrustean bed. Abhorring what they considered op-
pression in the masters, why did they oppress others?
Because, when men get excited, they know not what
they do. Judge, then, with something of the mercy of
the Holy One, whom we all love.

In spite of policemen, set to watch over the safety
of the poor country weavers, — ^in spite of magis-
trates, and prisons, and severe punishments, — the poor

272 MAEY BABTON :

depressed men tramping in from Burnley, Padiham, and
other places, to work at the condemned " Starvation
Prices," were waylaid, and beaten, and left almost for
dead by the road-side. The police broke up every
lounging knot of men: — they separated quietly, to re-
unite half-a-mile further out of town.

Of course the feeling between the masters and work-
men did not improve under these circumstances.

Combination is an awful power. It is like the
equally mighty agency of steam; capable of almost un-
limited good or evil. But to obtain a blessing on its
labours, it must work under the direction of a high and
intelligent will ; incapable of being misled by passion,
or excitement. The will of the operatives had not been
guided to the calmness of wisdom.

So much for generalities. Let us now return to in-
dividuals.

A note, respectfully worded, although its tone of de-
termination was strong, had been sent from the power-
loom weavers, requesting that a " deputation" of them
might have a meeting with the masters, to state the
conditions they must have fulfilled before they would
end the turn-out. They thought they had attained a
sufficiently commanding position to dictate. John Bar-
ton was appointed one of the deputation.

The masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to
end the strife, although undetermined among themselves
how far they should yield, or whether they should yield
at all. Some of the old, whose experience had taught
them sympathy, were for concession. Others, white-

A TALE OF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 273

beaded men too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy
from the dap of the years of their lives, and sneered at
the more gentle and yielding. The younger men were
one and all for an unflinching resistance to claims urged
with so much violence. Of this party Harry Carson
was the leader.

But like all energetic people, the more he had to do
the more time he seemed to find. With all his letter-
writing, his calling, his being present at the New Bailey,
when investigations of any case of violence against knob-
sticks* was going on, he beset Mary more than ever.
She was weary of her life for him. From blandishments
he had even gone to threats — ^threats that whether she
would or not she should be his ; he showed an indiffe-
rence that was almost insulting to every thing that
might attract attention and injure her character.

And still she never saw Jem. Sl\e knew he had re-
turned home. She heard of him occasionally through
his cousin, who roved gaily from house to house, finding
and making friends everywhere. But she never saw
him. What was she to think ? Had he given her up ?
Were a few hasty words, spoken in a moment of irrita-
tion, to stamp her lot through life ? At times she thought
that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own con-
stant power of loving. For of change or of forgetful-
ness she did not dream. Then at other times her state
of impatience was such, that it required all her self-
restraint to prevent her from going and seeking him

• " Knob -sticks," those who consent to work at lower wages.
VOL. I. t'

274 MABT BABTON :

out, and (as man would do to man, or woman to wo-
man) begging him to forgive her hasty words, and allow
her to retract them, and bidding him accept of the love
that was filling her whole heart. She wished Margaret
had not advised her against such a manner of proceed*
ing ; she believed it was her friend's words that seemed
to make such a simple action impossible, in spite of all .
the internal urgings. But a friend's advice is only thus
powerful, when it puts into language the secret oracle of
our souls. It was the whisperings of her womanly na-
ture that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly
action, not Margaret's counsel.

All this time, this ten days or so, of Will's visit to
Manchester, there was something going on which in-
terested Mary even now, and which, in former times,
would have exceedingly amused and excited her. She
saw as clearly as ^ told in words, that the merry, ran-
dom, boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the
quiet, prim, somewhat plain Margaret : she doubted if
Margaret was aware of it, and yet, as she watched more
closely, she began to think some instinct made the blind
girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her pale
face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and
becoming rose-flush steal over her countenance. She
did not speak so decidedly as before; there was a hesi-
tation in her manner, that seemed to make her very
attractive ; as if something softer, more loveable than
excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech ;
her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways dis-
figured by her blindness, and now seemed to have

A TALE OF HAKCHE8XEB LIFE. 275

a new charm, as thej quivered under their white
down-cast lids. She must be conscious^ thought Mary, —
heart answering to heart.

Will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes,
no weighing of words ; it was as open and undisguised
as his nature; yet he seemed a&aid of ^e answer its
acknowledgment might meet with. It was Margaret's
angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made
him think of her as a being of some other sphere, that
he feared to woo. So he tried to propitiate Job in
all manner of ways. He went over to Liverpool to
rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish (no
very odorous present by the way). He hesitated
over a child's caul for some time, which was, in his eyes,
a far greater treasure, than any Exocetus. What use
could it be of to a landsman? Then Margaret's voice
rang in his ears ; and he determine^ to sacrifice it, his
most precious possession, to one whom she loved, as
she did her grandfather.

It was rather a relief to him, when, having put it
and the flying-fish together in a brown paper parcel,
and sat upon them for security all the way in the rail-
road, he found that Job was so indifferent to the pre-
cious caul, that he might easily claim it again. He
hung about Margaret, till he had received many warn-
ings and reproaches £rom his conscience in behalf of
his dear aunt Alice's claims upon his time. He went
away, and then he bethought him of some other little
word with Job. And he turned back, and stood talk-
ing once more in Margaret's presence^ door in hand,

t2

276 MABY BABTON :

only waiting for some little speecli of encouragement
to come in and sit down again. But as the invitation
was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go,
and do his duty.

Four days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry
Carson without success ; his hours of going and re-
turning to his home were so irregular, owing to the
meetings and consultations among the masters, which
were rendered necessary by the turn-out. On the fifth,
without any purpose on Jem's part, they met.

It was the workman's dinner-hour, the interval
between twelve and one ; when the streets of Manches-
ter are comparatively quiet, for a few shopping ladies,
and lounging gentlemen, count for nothing in that busy,
bustling, living place. Jem had been on an errand
for his master, instead of returning to his dinner;
and in passing al(yg a lane, a road (called in compli-
ment to the intentions of some future builder, a street),
he encountered Harry Carson, the only person, as far
as he saw beside himself, treading the unfrequented
path. Along one side ran a high broad fence, black-
ened over by coal-tar, and spiked and stuck with pointed
nails at the top, to prevent any one from climbing
over into the garden beyond. By this fence was the
foot-path. The carriage road was such as no carriage,
no, not even a cart, could possibly have passed along,
without Hercules to assist in lifting it out of the deep
clay ruts. On the other side of the way was a dead
brick wall ; and a field after that, where there was a
sawpit, and joiner's shed.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 277

Jem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay,
handsome young man approaching, with a light, buoy-
ant step. This then, was he whom Mary loved. It
was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor
smith, so elegant, so well-appointed, that he felt his
superiority in externals, strangely and painfully, for
an instant. Then something uprose within him, and
told him, that " a man's a man for a' that, for a' that,
and twice as much as a' that."" And he no longer felt
troubled by the outward appearance of his rival.

Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the
dirty places with almost a lad's buoyancy. To his sur-
prise the dark, sturdy-looking artisan stopped him, by
saying respectfully,

'* May I speak a word wi' you, sir?"

" Certainly, my good man," looking his astonish-
ment ; then finding that the promised speech did not
come very quickly, he added, ** But make haste, for
I'm in a hurry."

Jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of
broaching the subject uppermost in his mind than he
now found himself obliged to use. With a husky
voice that trembled as he spoke, he said,

** I think, sir, you're keeping company wi' a young
woman called Mary Barton ?"

A light broke in upon Harry Carson's mind, and he
paused before he gave the answer for which the other
waited.

Could this man be a lover of Mary's ? And (strange,
stinging thought) could he be beloved by her, and so

278 MART BABTON :

huve caused her obstinate rejection of himself? He
looked at Jem from head to foot, a black, grimy
mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and
awkward (according to the dancing-master) ; then he
glanced at himself, and recalled the reflection he had
so lately quitted in his bed-room. It was impossible*
No woman with eyes could choose the one when the
other wooed. It was Hyperion to a Satyr. That quo-
tation came aptly ; he forgot *' The man's a man for a*
that." And yet here was a clue, which he had often
wanted, to her changed conduct towards him. If

she loved this man. If he hated the fellow, and

longed to strike him. He would know all.

" Mary Barton! let me see. Ay, that is the name
of the girl. An arrant flirt, the little hussy is ; but very
pretty. Ay, Mary Barton is her name."

Jem bit his lips. Was it then so ; that Maiy was a
flirt, the giddy creature of whom he spoke ? He would
not believe it, and yet how he wished the suggestive
words unspoken. That thought must keep now, though.
Even if she were, the more reason for there being some
one to protect her ; poor, faulty darUng.

" She's a good girl, sir, though may be a bit set up
with her beauty ; but she's her father's only child, sir,
and — ^" he stopped ; he did not like to express suspicion,
and yet he was determined he would be certain there
was ground for none. What should he say ?

** Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with
that ? It's but loss of my time, and yours, too, if

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 279

youVe only stopped me to tell me Mary Barton is very
pzetty ; I know that well enough."

He seemed as though he would have gone on, but
Jem put his black, working, right hand upon his arm
to detain him. The haughty young man shook it ofi^
and with his glove pretended to brush away the sooty
contamination that might be left upon his light great-
coat sleeve. The little action aroused Jem.

" I will tell you in plain words what I have got to
say to you, young man. It's been telled me by one as
knows, and has seen, that you walk with this same
Maiy Barton, and are known to be courting her ; and
her as spoke to me about it, thinks as how Mary loves
you. That may be, or may not. But I'm an old
friend of hers, and her father's; and I just wished to
know if you mean to marry the girl. Spite of what
you said of her lightness, I ha* known her long enough
to be sure she'll make a noble wife for any one, let him
be what he may ; and I mean to stand by her like a
brother ; and if you mean rightly, youll not think the
worse on me for what I've now said ; and if — but no,
rU not say what I'll do to the man who wrongs a hair
of her head. He shall rue it the longest day he lives,
that's all. Now, sir, what I ask of you is this. If you
mean fair and honourable by her, well and good ; but
if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave her
alone, and never speak to her more." Jem's voice qui-
vered with the earnestness with which he spoke, and
he eagerly waited for some answer.

280 MARY BARTON :

Harry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very
particularly to the purpose the man had in addressing-
him, was trying to gather from his speech what was the
real state of the case. He succeeded so far as to com-
prehend that Jem incUned to believe that Mary loved
his rival; and consequently, that if the speaker were
attached to her himself, he was not a favoured admirer.
The idea came into Mr. Carson's mind, that perhaps
after all, Mary loved him in spite of her frequent and
obstinate rejections; and that she had employed this
person (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying
her. He resolved to try and ascertain more correctly
the man's relation to her. Either he was a lover, and
if so, not a favoured one (in which case Mr. Carson
could not at all understand the man's motives for in-
teresting himself in securing her marriage); or he was
a friend, an accomplice, whom she had employed to
bully him. So little faith in goodness have the mean
and selfish !

" Before I make you into my confidant, my good
man," said Mr. Carson, in a contemptuous tone, " I
think it might be as well to inquire your right to
meddle with our affairs. Neither Mary nor I, as I con-
ceive, called you in as a mediator." He paused; he
wanted a distinct answer to this last supposition. None
came ; so he began to imagine he was to be threatened
into some engagement, and his angry spirit rose.

** And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness
to leave us to ourselves, and not meddle with what
does not concern you. If you were a brother, or

A TALE OF KAKCHESTEB LIFE. 281

father of hers, the case might have been difierent
As it isy I can only consider you an impertinent
meddler."

Again he would have passed on, but Jem stood in a
detennined way before him, saying,

" You say if I had been her brother, or her father,
you'd have answered me what I ask. Now, neither
father nor brother could love her as I have loved her,
ay, and as I love her still ; if love gives a right to
sati^ction, it's next to impossible any one breathing
can come up to my right. Now, sir, tell me ! do you
mean fair by Mary or not? I've proved my claim to
know, and, by G — , I will know."

** Come, come, no impudence," replied Mr. Carson,
who having discovered what he wanted to know (namely,
that Jem was a lover of Mary's, and that she was not
encouraging his suit), wished to pass on.

^* Father, brother, or rejected lover" (with an em-
phasis on the word rejected), " no one has a right to
interfere between my little girl and me. No one shall.
Confound you, man ! get out of my way, or I'll make
you," as Jem still obstructed his path with dogged de-
termination.

" I won't, then, till you've given me your word about
Mary," replied the mechanic, grinding his words out
between his teeth, and the livid paleness of the anger
he could no longer keep down covering his face till he
looked ghastly.

" Won't you?" (with a taunting laugh), " then I'll
make you." The young man raised his slight cane, and

282 MABT babton:

smote the artizan across the face with a stinging stroke.
An instant afterwards he lay stretched in the muddy
road, Jem standing over him, panting with rage. What
he would have done next in his moment of ungovernable
passion, no one knows; hut a poUceman from the main
street; into which this road led, had been sauntering
about for some time, unobserved by either of the par-
ties, and expecting some kind of conclusion like the
present to the violent discussion going on between the
two young men. In a minute he had pinioned Jem,
who sullenly yielded to the surprise.

Mr. Carson was on his feet directly, his fistce glowing
with rage or shame.

'^ Shall I take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?"
said the policeman.

" No, no," exclaimed Mr. Carson; " I struck him
first. It was no assault on his side; though," he con-
tinued, hissing out his words to Jem, who even hated
freedom procured for him, however justly, at the inter-
vention of his rival, " I will never forgive or forget
your insult. Trust me," he gasped the words in excess
of passion, " Mary shall fare no better for your insolent
interference." He laughed, as if with the conscious-
ness of power.

Jem replied with equal excitement —

** And if you dare to injure her in the least, I will
await you where no policeman can step in between.
And God shall judge between us two."

The policeman now interfered with persuasions and
warnings. He locked his arm in Jem's to lead him

A TALE OF HAKCHE8TEB LIFE.

away, in an opposite direction to that in wUch he saw
Mr. Caison was going. Jem submitted, gloomily, for
a few steps, then wrenched himself free. The police-
man shouted after him,

" Take care, my man ! there's no girl on earth worth
what you'll be bringing on yourself, if you don't
mind."

But Jem was out of hearing.

284 HABT BABTOK '.

CHAPTER XVI.

** Not for a moment take the scomer's chair ;
While seated there, thon know'st not how a word,
A tone, a look, may gall thy brother's heart.
And make him turn in bitterness against thee.*^

* Love-Truths.*

The day arrived on wHcli the masters were to have
an interview with a deputation of the work-people.
The meeting was to take place in a public room, at an
hotel; and there, about eleven o'clock, the mill-owners,
who had received the foreign orders, began to collect.

Of course, the first subject, however full their minds
might be of another, was the weather. Having done
their duty by all the showers and sunshine which had
occurred during the past week, they fell to talking
about the business which brought them together.
There might be about twenty gentlemen in the room,
including some by courtesy, who were not immediately
concerned in the settlement of the present question ;
but who, nevertheless, were suflSiciently interested to
attend. These were divided into little groups, who did
not seem unanimous by any means. Some were for a

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 285

slight concession, just a 8ugar*plum to quieten the
naughty child, a sacrifice to peace and quietness. Some
were steadily and vehemently opposed to the dangerous
precedent of yielding one jot or one tittle to the outward
force of a turn-out. It was teaching the work-people
how to become masters, said they. Did they want the
wildest thing heareafter, they would know that the way
to obtain their wishes, would be to strike work. Besides,
one or two of those present had only just returned from
the New Bailey, where one of the turn-outs had been tried
for a cruel assault on a poor north-country weaver, who
had attempted to work at the low price. They were in-
dignant, and justly so, at the merciless manner in which
the poor fellow had been treated ; and their indignation
at wrong, took (as it so often does) the extreme form
of revenge. They felt as if, rather than yield to the
body of men who were resorting to such cruel mea-
sures towards their fellow-workmen, they, the masters,
would sooner relinquish all the benefits to be derived
from the fulfilment of the commission, in order that
the workmen might sufier keenly. They forgot that
the strike was in this instance the consequence of want
and need, suffered unjustly, as the endurers believed ;
for, however insane, and without ground of reason, such
was their belief, and such was the cause of their
violence. It is a great truth, that you cannot extin-
guish violence, by violence. You may put it down for
a time ; but while you are crowing over your imaginary
success, see if it does not return with seven devils worse
than its former self !

286 MABTBABTON:

No one thought of treating the workmen as brethren
and friends, and openly, clearly, as appealing to reason-
able men, stating the exact and full circumstances,
which led the masters to think it was the wise policy of
the time to make sacrifices themselves, and to hope for
them from the operatives.

In going from group to group in the room, you
caught such a medley of sentences as the following :

" Poor devils ! they're near enough to starving, Tm
afraid. Mrs. Aldred makes two cows' heads into soup
every week, and people come several miles to fetch it ;
and if these times last we must try and do more. But
we must not be bullied into any thing !"

" A rise of a shilling or so, won't make much diiBFer-
ence, and they will go away thinking they've gained
their point."

« That's the very thing I object to. They'll think
so, and whenever they've a point to gain, no matter
how unreasonable, they'll strike work."

" It really injures them more than us."

" I don't see how our interests can be separated.'*

" The d d brute had thrown vitriol on the poor

fellow's ancles, and you know what a bad part that is to
heal. He had to stand stiU with the pain, and that left
liim at the mercy of the cruel wretch, who beat him
about the head tiU you'd hardly have known he was a
man. They doubt if he'll live."

'' If it were only for that, I'll stand out against them,
even if it were the cause of my ruin."

" Ay, I for one, won't yield one farthing to the cruel

A TALE GF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 287

bTQtes ; they're xnoie like wild beasts than human
beings."

(Well ! who might have made them different?)

<* I say^ Caison, just go and tell Duncombe of this
fiesh instance of their abominable conduct. He's waver-
ing, but I think this will decide him."

The door was now opened, and a waiter announced
that the men were below, and asked if it were the plea-
sure of the gentlemen that they should be shown up.

They assented, and rapidly took their places round
the official table; looking, as like as they could, to the
Roman senators who awaited the irruption of Bren-
nus and his Gauls.

Tramp, tramp, came the heavy clogged feet up the
stairs ; and in a minute five wild, earnest-looking men,
stood in the room. John Barton, from some mistake as
to time, was not among them. Had they been larger
boned men, you would have called them gaunt ; as it was,
they were Httle of stature, and their fustian clothes hung
loosely upon their shrunk limbs. In choosing their dele-
gates, too, the operatives had had more regard to their
brains, and power of speech, than to their wardrobes ; they
might have read the opinions of that worthy Professor
Teufelsdruch, in Sartor Resartus, to judge from the
dilapidated coats and trousers, which yet clothed men of
parts, and of power. It was long since many of them
had known the luxury of a new article of dress ; and
wr-gaps were to be seen in their garments. Some of
ihe masters were rather affironted at such a ragged de-

288 HABT babtok:

tachment coming between the wind and their nobility ;
but what cared they ?

At the request of a gentleman hastily chosen to officiate
as chairman, the leader of the delegates read, in a high-
pitched, psalm-singing voice, a paper, containing the
operatives' statement of the case at issue, their com-
plaints, and their demands, which last were not re-
markable for moderation.

He was then desired to withdraw for a few minutes,
with his fellow delegates to another room, while the
masters considered what should be their definitive
answer.

When the men had left the room, a whispered earnest
consultation took place, every one re-urging his former
arguments. The conceders carried the day; but only
by a majority of one. The minority haughtily and
audibly expressed their dissent from the measures to be
adopted, even after the delegates re-entered the room;
their words and looks did not pass unheeded by the
quick-eyed operatives; their names were registered in
bitter hearts.

The masters could not consent to the advance de-
manded by the workmen. They would agree to give
one shilling per week more than they had previously
offered. Were the delegates empowed to accept such
offer ?

They were empowered to accept or decline any offer
made that day by the masters.

Then it might be as well for them to consult among

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 289

ihemselyes as to wliat should be their decision. They
^gain withdrew.

It was not for long. They came back, and positively
declined any compromise of their demands.

Then up sprang Mr. Henry Carson, the head and
voice of the violent party among the masters, and ad-
dressing the chairman, even before the scowling opera-
tives^ he proposed some resolutions, which he, and those
who agreed with him, had been concocting during this
last absence of the deputation.

They were, firstly, withdrawing the proposal just
made, and declaring all communication between the
masters and that particular Trades' Union at an end ;
secondly, declaring that no master would employ any
workman in future, unless he signed a declaration that
he did not belong to any Trades' Union, and pledged
^himself not to assist or subscribe to any society, having
for its object interference with the masters' powers ;
and, thirdly, that the masters should pledge themselves
tp protect and encourage all workmen willing to accept
employment on those conditions, and at the rate of wages
first offered. Considering that the men who now stood
listening with lowering brows of defiance were all of
them leading members of the Union, such resolutions
were in themselves suflGlciently provocative of animosity :
but not content with simply stating them, Harry Carson
went on to characterise the conduct of the workmen in
no measured terms ; every word he spoke rendering
their looks more livid, their glaring eyes more fierce.
One among them would have spoken, but checked liim-

VOL. I. U

290 HAJBLY babtok:

self in obedience to tlie stem glance and pressure on his
arm, received from the leader. Mr. Carson sat down,
and a iriend instantly got up to second the motion. It
was carried, but far from unanimously. The chairman
announced it to the delegates (who had been once more
turned out of the room for a division). They received
it with deep brooding silence, but spake never a word,
and left the room without even a bow.

Now there had been some by-play at this meeting,
not recorded in the Manchester newspapers, which
gave an account of the more regular part of the trans-
action.

While the men had stood grouped near the door, on
their first entrance, Mr. Harry Carson had taken out his
silver pencil, and had drawn an admirable caricature of
them — ^lank, ragged, dispirited, and &mine*8tricken*
Underneath he wrote a hasty quotation from ibe fat
knight's well-known speech in Henry IV. He passed
it to one of his neighbours, who acknowledged the like*
ness instantly, and by him it was sent round to others,
who all smiled and nodded their heads. When it came
back to its owner he tore the back of the letter on which
it was drawn, in two ; twisted them up, and flung them
into the fire-place ; but, careless whether they reached
their aim or not, he did not look to see that they fell
just short of any consuming cinders.

This proceeding was closely observed by one of the
men.

He watched the masters as they left the hotel (laugh*
ing, some of them were^ at passing jokes), and when

A TALE OF HAHCHESTEB LIFE. 291

all had gone, he le-entered. He went to the waiter^
who recc^nised him.

" There's a bit on a pictuie up yonder, as one o' the
gentlemen threw away; I've a little lad at home as
dearly loves a picture ; by your leave I'll go up for it.**

The waiter, good-natured and sympathetic, accom-
panied him upnstairs ; saw the paper picked up, and
untwisted, and then being convinced, by a hasty glance
at its contents, it was only what the man had called it,
** a bit of a picture," he allowed him to bear away his

Towards seven o'clock that evening many operatives
b^an to assemble in a room in the Weavers' Arms
public-house, a room appropriated for "festive occa-
sions," as the landlord, in his circular, on opening the
premises, had described it. But, alas I it was on no
&sdve occasion that they met there on this night.
Starved^ irritated, despairing men, they were assembling
to hear the answer ihat morning given by the masters
to their delegates ; after which, as was stated in the
notice, a gentleman irom London would have the
honour of addressing the meeting on the present state
of affiurs between the employers and the employed, or
(as he chose to term them) the idle and the industrious
classes. The room was not large, but its bareness of
furniture made it appear so. Unshaded gas flared
down upon the lean and unwashed artizans as they
entered, their eyes blinking at the excess of light.

They took their seats on benches, and awaited the
deputation. The latter, gloomily and ferociously, de-

U2

292 MABY BABTON :

livered the masters' ultimatum, adding thereunto not
one word of their own; and it sank all the deeper into
the sore hearts of the listeners for their forbearance.

Then the "gentleman from London," (who had
been previously informed of the masters' decision)
entered. You would have been puzzled to define his
exact position, or what was the state of his mind as
regarded education. He looked so self-conscious, so
f^r from earnest, among the group of eager, fierce, ab-
sorbed men, among whom he now stood. He might
have been a disgraced medical student of the Bob Saw-
yer class, or an unsuccessful actor, or a flashy shopman.
The impression he would have given you would have
been unfavourable, and yet there was much about him
that could only be characterised as doubtful.

He smirked in acknowledgment of their imcouth
greetings, and sat down; then glancing round, he in-
quired whether it would not be agreeable to the gentle-
men present to have pipes and liquor handed round ;
adding, that he would stand treat.

As the man who has had his taste educated to love
reading, falls devouringly upon books after a long ab-
stinence, so these poor fellows, whose tastes had been left
to educate themselves into a liking for tobacco, beer^
and similar gratifications, gleamed up at the proposal of
the London delegate. Tobacco and drink deaden the
pangs of hunger, and make one forget the miserable
home, the desolate future.

They were now ready to listen to him with appro-
bation. He felt it ; and rising like a great orator, with

A TALE GF HANCHESTEB LIFE. 293

Lis right arm outstietclied, his left in the breast of his
waistcoat, he began to declaim^ with a forced theatrical
voice.

After a burst of eloquence, in which he blended the
deeds of the elder and the yoomger Brutus, and mag-
nified the resistless might of the '* millions of Manches-
ter," the Londoner descended to matter-of-fact business,
and in his capacity this way he did not belie the good
judgment of those who had sent him as delegate. Masses
of people when left to their own free choice, seem to have
discretion in distinguishing men of natural talent ; it is a
. pity they so little regard temper and principles. He ra-
pidly dictated resolutions, and suggested measures. He
wrote out a stirring placard for the walls. He proposed
sending delegates to entreat the assistance of other Trades'
Unions in other towns. He headed the list of sub-
scribing Unions, by a liberal donation from that with
which he was especially connected in London ; and what
was more, and more uncommon, he paid down the
money in real, clinking, blinking, golden sovereigns!
The money, alas, was cravingly required ; but before
alleviating any private necessities on the morrow, small
sums were handed to each of the delegates, who were
in a day or two to set out on their expeditions to Glas-
gow, Newcastle, Nottingham, &c. These men were
most of them members of the deputation, who had
that morning waited upon the masters. After he had
drawn up some letters, and spoken a few more stirring
words, the gentleman from London withdrew, pre-

294 MART BABTON :

viously shaking hands all round ; and many speedily
followed him out of the room, and out of the house.

The newly-appointed delegates, and one or two others^
remained behind to talk over their respective missions,
and to give and exchange opinions in more homely
and natural language than they dared to use before the
London orator.

" He's a rare chap, yon," began one, indicating the
departed delegate by a jerk of his thumb towards the
door. " He's gotten the gift of the gab, anyhow I"

"Ay! ay! he knows what he's about. See! how
he poured it into us about that there Brutus. He were
pretty hard, too, to kill his own son 1"

" I could kill mine if he took part wi' the masters ;
to be sure, he's but a step-son^ but that makes no odds/'
said another.

But now tongues were hushed, and all eyes were
directed towards the member of the deputation who had
that morning returned to the hotel, to obtain possession
of Harry Carson's clever caricature of the operatives.

The heads clustered together, to gaze at, and detect
the likenesses.

" That's John Slater ! I'd ha' known him anywhere,
by his big nose. Lord ! how like ; that's me, by G — ,
it's the very way Fm obligated to pin my waistcoat up,
to hide that I've gotten no shirt. That is a shame, and
m not stand it."

"Well!" said John Slater, after having acknow-
ledged his nose and his likeness ; " I could laugh at

A TALE OF UAKCHBSTEB LIFE. 295

a jest as well as e^er the best on 'em, though it did tell
again mysel, if I were not clemming" (his eyes filled
with tears ; he was a poor, pinched, sharp-featuxed
man, with a gentle and melancholy expression of comi-
tenance), " and if I could keep from thinking of them
at home, as is clemming ; but with their cries for food
ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going
home, and wonder if I should hear 'em wailing out,
if I lay cold and drowned at th' bottom o' the canal,
there, — ^why, man, I cannot laugh at ought. It seems
to make me sad that there is any as can make game
on what they've never knowed ; as can make such
laughable pictures on men, whose very hearts within
'em are so raw and sore as ours were and are, God
help ub"

John Barton began to speak ; they turned to him
with deep attention. " It makes me more than sad, it
makes my heart burn within me, to see that folk can
make a jest of earnest men ; of chaps, who corned to
ask for a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers in the
cold ; for a bit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the
poor wife as lies in labour on th' damp flags ; and for
victuals for the childer, whose little voices are getting
too faint and weak to cry aloud wi' hunger. For, bro-
thers, is not them the things we ask for when we ask
for more wage ? We donnot want dainties, we want
bellyfuls ; we donnot want gimcrack coats and waist-
coats, we want warm clothes, and so that we get 'em
we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. We don-
not want their grand houses, we want a roof to cover

296 UABT BABTON :

US from the rain, and the snow, and the storm ; ay, and
not alone to cover us, but the helpless ones that cling
to us in the keen wind, and ask us with their eyes why
we brought 'em into th' world to suflfer?" He lowered
his deep voice almost to a whisper.

** I've seen a father who had killed his child rather
than let it clem before his eyes ; and he were a tender-
hearted man." . . .

He began again in his usual tone. " We come to
th' masters wi' full hearts, to ask for them things I
named afore. We know that they have gotten money,
as we've earned for ^em ; we know trade is mending,
and that they have large orders, for which they'll be
well paid ; we ask for our share of the payment ; for,
say we, if our masters get our share of payment it
will only go to keep servants and horses, to more dress
and pomp. Well and good, if yo choose to be fools
we'll not hinder you, so long as youVe just ; but our
share we must and will have ; we'll not be cheated.
We want it for daily bread, for life itself ; and not for
our own lives neither (for there's many a one here, I
know by mysel, as would be glad and thankful to lie
down and die out o' this weary world), but for the
lives of them little ones, who don't yet know what life
is, and are afeard of death. Well, we come before th*
masters to state what we want, and what we must have,
afore we'll set shoulder to their work ; and they say,
' No.' One would think that would be enough of
hard-heartedness, but it is not. They go and make
jesting pictures of us ! I could laugh at mysel, as well

A TALE OF HANCHE8TER LIFE, 297

as poor John Slater there ; but then I must be easy in
my mind to laugh. Now I only know that I would
give the last drop o' my blood to avenge us on yon
chap, who had so little feeling in him as to make game
on earnest, suffering men !"

A low angry murmur was heard among the men, but
it did not yet take form or words. John continued —

** You'll wonder, chaps, how I came to miss the time
this morning ; I'll just tell you what I was a- doing. Th'
chaplain at the New Bailey sent and gived me an order
.to see Jonas Higginbotham ; he as was taken up last
week for throwing vitriol in a knob-stick's face. Well,
I could not help but go; and I did not reckon it would
ha' kept me so late. Jonas were like one crazy when
I got to him ; he said he could na* get rest night or
day for th' face of the poor fellow he had damaged ;
then he thought on his weak, clemmed look, as he
tramped, foot-sore, into town ; and Jonas thought, may
be, he had left them at home as would look for news,
and hope and get none, but, haply, tidings of his death.
Well, Jonas had thought on these things till he could
not rest, but walked up and down continually like a
wild beast in his cage. At last he bethought him on
a way to help a bit, and he got th' chaplain to send for
me ; and he telled me 'this ; and that th' man were
lying in th' Infinnary, and he bade me go (to-day's the
day as folk may be admitted into th' Infirmary) and
get his silver watch, as was his mother's, and sell it as
well as I could, and take the money, and bid the poor
knob*stick send it to his friends beyond Burnley, and I

298 MART BARTON :

were to take him Jonas's kind regards, and he humbly
axed him to forgive him. So I did what Jonas wished.
But bless your life, none on us would ever throw vitriol
again (at least at a knob-stick) if they could see the
sight I saw to-day. The man lay, his face all wrapped
in clothes, so I did not see that; but not a limb, nor a
bit of a limb, could keep from quivering with pain.
He would ha' bitten his hand to keep down his moans,
but could not, his face hurt him so if he moved it e^er
so little. He could scarce mind me when I telled him
about Jonas; he did squeeze my hand when I jingled
the money, but when I axed his wife's name he shrieked
outy ^ Mary, Mary, shall I never see you again. Mary,
my darling, they've made me blind because I wanted
to work for you and our own baby ; oh, Mary, Maiy Y
Then the nurse came, and said he were raving, and that
I had made him worse. And I'm afeard it was true ;
yet I were loth to go without knowing where to send
the money. ... So that kept me beyond my lime,
chaps."

" Did yo hear where the wife lived at last?" asked
many anxious voices.

" No ! he went on talking to her, till his words cut
my heart like a knife. I axed th' nurse to find out who
die was, and where she lived. But what I'm more
especial naming it now for is this, — ^for one thing I
wanted yo all to know why I weren't at my post this
morning; for another, I wish to say, that I, for one,
ha' seen enough of what comes of attacking knob-sticks,
and I'll ha nought to do with it no more."

A TALE OF SfAHCHESTEB LIFE. 299

There were some ezpreanons of diaappiobation, bat
John did not mind them.

** Nay! I'm no coward," he replied^ ^'andFm troe to
th' backbone. What I would like, and what I would
do, would be to fight the masters. There'sone among
yo called me a coward. Well! eveiy man has a right
to his opinion; but since I've thought on th' matter
to-day, I've lliought we han all on 'us been more like
cowards in attacking the poor like ourselves; them as
bas none to help, but mun choose between vitriol and
starvation. I say we're more cowardly in doing that than
in leaving them alone. No ! what I would do is this.
Have at the masters !" Again he shouted, ** Have at
the masters !" He spoke lower ; all listened with hushed
breath.

" It's the masters as has wrought this woe; it's the
masters as should pay for it. Him as called me coward
just now, may try if I am one or not. Set me to serve
out the masters, and see if there's ought FIl stick at."

'^ It would give th' masters a bit on a fright if one on
them were beaten within an inch of his life,'' said one.

" Ay 1 or beaten till no life were left in him," growled
another.

And so with words, or looks that told more than
words, they built up a deadly plan. Deeper and darker
grew the import of their speeches, as they stood hoarsely
muttering their meaning out, and glaring, with eyes that
told the terror their own thoughts were to them, upon
their neighbours. Their clenched fists, their set teeth,
their livid looks, all told the sufiering their minds were

300 MABT barton:

voluntarily undergoing in the contemplation of crime^
and in familiarising themselves with its details.

Then came one of those fierce terrible oaths which
bind members of Trades' Unions to any given purpose.
Then, under the flaring gaslight, they met together to
consult further. With the distrust of guilt, each was
suspicious of his neighbour; each dreaded the treachery
of another. A number of pieces of paper (the identical
letter on which the caricature had been drawn that very
morning) were torn up, and one was marked. Then
all were folded up again, looking exactly alike. They
were shuflled together in a hat. The gas was ex-
tinguished; each drew out a paper. The gas was re-
lighted. Then each went as far as he could from his
fellows, and examined the paper he had drawn without
saying a word, and -with a countenance as stony and
immovable as he could make it.

Then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their
hats and went every one his own way.

He who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the
lot of the assassin ! and he had sworn to act according
to his drawing ! But no one save God and his own
conscience knew who was the appointed murderer !

A TALE OF MANCHE8TEB LIFE. 301

CHAPTER XVn.

" Mournful is 't to say Farewell,

Though for few brief hours we part ;
In that absence, who can tell
What may come to wring the heart I"

Anoktmous.

The events recorded in the last chapter took place
on a Tuesday. On Thursday afternoon, Mary was sur-
prised, in the midst of some little bustle in which she
was engaged, by the entrance of Will Wilson. He
looked strange, at least it was strange to see any different
expression on his face to his usual joyous beaming
appearance. He had a paper parcel in his hand. He
came in, and sat down, more quietly than usual.

"Why, Willi what's the matter with you? You
seem quite cut up about something !"

"And I am, Mary! I'm come to say good-bye;
aiid few folk like to say good-bye to them they love."

" Good-bye! Bless me. Will! that's sudden, is not
it?"

Mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the
fire-place.. She had always liked Will; but now it

302 XABY babtok:

seemed as if a sudden spring of sisterly love had gushed
up in her heart, so sorry did she feel to hear of his
approaching departure.

** It's very sudden, is not it?'* said she, repeating her
question.

•'Yes I it's very sudden," said he, dreamily. "No,
it is not;" rousing himself, to think of what he was
saying. " The captain told me, in a fortnight he would
be ready to sail agdn ; but it comes very sudden on
me, I had got so fond of you alL"

Mary understood the particular fondness that was
thus generalised. She spoke again.

*• But it's not a fortnight since you came. Not a
fortnight since you knocked at Jane Wilson's door, and
I was there, you remember. Nothing like a fortnight P

'^No; I know it's not. But, you see, I got a letter
this afternoon from Jack Harris, to tell me ova ship
sails on Tuesday next; and it's long since I promised
my uncle (my mother's brother, him that lives at Eirk*
Christ, beyond Ramsay, in the Isle of Man) that Td go
and see him and his, this time of coming ashore. I
must go. I'm sorry enough; but I must not slight
poor mother's friends. I must go. Don^t try to keep
me," said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own
resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty.

''I'm not a-going, Will I dare say you're right;
only I can't help feeling sorry you're going away. It
seems so flat to be left behind. When do you go ?"

" To-night. I shan't see you again."

" To-night I and you go to Liverpool ! May be you

A TALE OP XAHCHS8TKR LIFE. 303

and fiuher will go togedier. He's gcung to Gliagow,
by TOjr of livapooL"

*^ No! Fm widking; and I don't think jour fitdier
win be up to wiDdng,^

'^WeU! and why on earth are yon walking? Yoa
can get by zaflway for tfaxee-and-flixpenoe.'*

''Ay, but Maiy! (thou must not tdl what Tm
going to tdl thee) I haye not got three ahiSings, no,
nor even one szpence left, at least not here; before I
came here I ga^e my landlady enough to cany me to
the island and back, and may be a trifle for presents,
and I brooght aU the rest here ; and it*s all gone but
this," jingling a few coppers in his hand.

'< Nay, never iret over my walking a matter of thirty
mile," added he, as he saw she looked grave and sony.
'^ It's a fine dear night, and I shall set ofi'betimes, and
get in afore the Manx packet sails. Where's your
&ther gcnng? To Gla^ow, did you say? Perhaps he
and I may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the
Manx boat has sailed when I get into Liverpool, I
shall go by a Scotch packet. What's he going to do
in Glasgow? — Seek for work? Trade is as bad there
as here, folk say."

^'No; he knows that," answered Maiy, sadly. ''I
sometimes think hell never get work again, and that
trade will never mend. It's very hard to keep up one's
heart. I wish I were a boy, Fd go to sea with you.
It would be getting away from bad news at any rate;
and now, there's hardly a creature that crosses the door-
step, but has something sad and unhappy to tell one

304 HART B AKTON :

father is going as a delegate from lus Union, to ask
help from the Glasgow folk. He's starting this even-
ing."

Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her
that it was very flat to be left behind.

**You say no one crosses the threshold but has
something sad to say; you don't mean that Margaret
Jeimings has any trouble ?" asked the young sailor,
anxiously.

" No !" replied Mary, smiling a little, " she is the
only one I know, I believe, who seems free from care.
Her blindness almost appears a blessing sometimes ; she
was so downhearted when she dreaded it, and now she
seems so calm and happy now it's downright come.
No ! Margaret's happy, I do think."

" I could almost wish it had beeu otherwise,",saidWill,
thoughtfully. ** I could have been so glad to comfort
her, and cherish her, if she had been in trouble."

*' And why can't you cherish her, even though she
is happy ?" asked Mary.

*'Oh! I don't know. She seems so much better
than I am ! And her voice ! When I hear it, and
think of the wishes that are in my heart, it seems as
much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would
be to ask an angel from heaven."

Mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of
her depression, at the idea of Margaret as an angel ; it
was so difficult (even to her dress-making imagination),
to fancy where, and how, the wings would be fastened
to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print.

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. 305

Will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with
Mary's pretty merry laugh. Then he said —

" Ay, you may laugh, Mary; it only shows you've
never been in love."

In an instant Mary was carnation colour, and the
tears ^rang to her soft gray eyes; she was suffering
so much from the doubts arising from love ! It was
xmkind of him. He did not notice her change of look
and of complexion. He only noticed that she was
silent, so he continued :

" I thought — ^I think, that when I come back from
this voyage, I will speak. It's my fourth voyage in the
same ship, and with the same captain, and he's promised
he'll make me second mate after this trip, then I shall
have something to offer Margaret ; and her father, and
aunt Alice, shall live with her, to keep her from being
lonesome while I'm at sea. I'm speaking as if she cared
for me, and would marry me ; d'ye think she does care
at all for me, Mary?" asked he, anxiously.

Mary had a very decided opinion of her own on the
subject, but she did not feel as if she had any right to
give it. So she said —

" You must ask Margaret, not me. Will ; shels
never named your name to me." His countenance fell.
" But I should say that was a good sign from a girl
like her ; I've no right to say what' I think; but, if I
was you, I would not leave her now without speak-
ing.«

** No ! I cannot speak ! I have tried. I've been in to
wish them good-bye, and my voice stuck in my throat.

VOL. I. X

3 06 ICABT BABTON :

I could say nought of what I*d plauned to say; and I
never thought of being so bold as to offer her marriage
till rd been my next trip^ and been made mate. I
could not even offer her this box," said he, undoing his
paper parcel, and displaying a gaudily ornamented ac-
cordion; "I longed to buy her something, and I
thought, if it were something in the music line, she
would may-be fancy it more. So, will you give it to
her, Mary, when I'm gone? and, if you can slip in
something tender, — something, you know, of what I
feel, — may-be she would listen to you, Mary."

Mary promised that she would do all that he
asked.

*' I shall be thinking on her many and many a night,
when I'm keeping my watch in mid-sea ; I wonder if
she will ever think on me, when the wind is whistling,
and the gale rising. You'll often speak of me to her,
Mary ? And if I should meet with any mischance, tell
her how dear, how very dear, she was to me, and bid her,
for the sake of one who loved her well, try and comfort
my poor aimt Alice. Dear old aunt ! you and Marga-
ret will often go and see her, won't you ? She's sadly
£uled since I was last ashore. And so good as she has
been ! When I Hved with her, a little wee chap, I used
to be awakened by the neighbours knocking her up ;
this one was ill, or* that body's child was restless ; and,
for as tired as ever she might be, she would be up and
dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard day's
wash afore her next morning. Them were happy times !
How happy I used to be when she would take me into

A TALE OP HANCH£ST£B LIFE. 307

the fields with her to gather herbs ! Pre tasted tea in
China since then, but it was not half so good as the
herb tea she used to make for me o' Sunday nights.
And she knew such a deal about plants and birds, and
their ways I She used to tell me long stories about her
childhood, and we used to plan how we would go some-
time, please God (that was always her word), and live
near her old home beyond Lancaster; in the very cot-
tage where she was bom if we could get it. Dear ! and
how different it is ! Here is she still in a back street o'
Manchester, never likely to see her own home again;
and I, a sailor, off for America next week. I wish she
had been able to go to Burton once afore she died."

" She would may be have found aU sadly changed,"
said Mary, though her heart echoed Will's feeling.

" Ay ! ay I I dare say it's best. One thing I do wish
though, and I have often wished it when out alone on
the deep sea, when even the most thoughtless cannot
choose but think on th' past and the future ; and that
is, that rd never grieved her. Oh Mary ! many a hasty
word comes sorely back on the heart, when one thinks
one shall never see the person whom one has grieved
again !"

They both stood thinking. Suddenly Mary started.

** That's father's step. And his shirt is not ready !"

She hurried to her irons, and tried to make up for
lost time.

John Barton came in. Such a haggard and wildly
anxious looking man, Will thought he had never seen.

X2

308 MAEYBAETON:

He looked at Will, but spoke no word of greeting or
welcome.

'* Vm come to bid you good bye/' said the sailor, and
would in his sociable friendly humour have gone on
speaking. But John answered abruptly,

" Good bye to ye, then."

There was that in his manner which left no doubt of
his desire to get rid of the visitor, and Will accordingly
shook hands with Mary, and looked at John, as if
doubting how far to ojBer to shake hands with him.
But he met with no answering glance or gesture, so he
went his way, stopping for an instant at the door to say,

" You'll think on me on Tuesday, Mary. That's
the day we shall hoist our blue Peter, Jack Harris

Mary was heartily sorry when the door closed; it
seemed like shutting out a friendly sunbeam. And her
father ! what could be the matter with him? He was so
restless; not speaking (she wished he would), but start-
ing up and then sitting down, and meddling with her
irons; he seemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face.
She wondered if he disliked Will being there; or if he
were vexed to find that she had not got further on
with her work. At last she could bear his nervous
way no longer, it made her equally nervous and
fidgetty. She would speak.

" When are you going, father? I don't know the
time o' the trains.'*

" And why shouldst thou know ?" replied he, gruffly.

A TALE OF MAKCHE8TER LIFE. 309

'^ Meddle with th j ironing, but donnot be asking ques-
tions about what does not conoem thee."

" I wanted to get you something to eat first," an-
swered she, gently.

^' Thou dost not know that I'm burning to do without
food," said he.

Mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. No !
he looked savagely grave.

She finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing
the food she was sure her father needed ; for by this time
her experience in the degrees of hunger had taught her
that his present irritabiUty was increased, if not caused,
by want of food.

He had had a sovereign given him to pay his ex-
penses as delegate to Glasgow, and out of this he had
given Mary a few shillings in the morning ; so she had
been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now her care
was to cook it so as most to tempt him.

** If thou'rt doing that for me, Mary, thou may'st
spare thy labour. I telled thee I were not for eating."

"Just a little bit, father, before starting," coaxed
Mary, perseveringly.

At that instant, who should come in but Job Legh.
It was not often he came, but when he did pay visits,
Mary knew from past experience they were any thing
but short. Her father's countenance fell back into
the deep gloom from which it was but just emerging
at the sound of Mary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading.
He became again restless and fidgetty , scarcely giving Job
Legh the greeting necessary for a host in bis own house.

310 KABT BABTON :

Job, however, did not stand upon ceremony. He
had come to pay a yisity and was not to be daunted
from his purpose. He was interested in John Barton's
mission to Glasgow, and wanted to hear all about it ;
so he sat down, and made himself comfortable, in a
manner that Mary saw was meant to be stationary.

" So thou'rt off to Glasgow, art thou ?' he began
his catechism.

"Ay.-

" When art starting ?"

" To-night."

" That I knowed. But by what train ?"

That was just what Mary wanted to know ; but
what apparently her father was in no mood to telL
He got up without speaking, and went up-stairs.
Mary knew from his step, and his way, how much
he was put out, and feared Job would see it, too. But
no ! Job seemed imperturbable. So much the better,
and perhaps she could cover her &ther'8 rudeness by
her own civility to so kind a friend.

So half listening to her father's movements up-stairs,
(passionate, violent, restless motions they were) and
half attending to Job Legh, she tried to pay him all
due regard.

" When does your father start, Mary ?"

That plaguing question again.

*' Oh ! very soon. I'm just getting him a bit of
supper. Is Margaret very well ?"

" Yes, she's well enough. She's meaning to go and
keep Alice Wilson company for an hour or so this even-

A TALE OF MAKCHESTEB LIFE. 311

ing ; as soon as she thinks her nephew wOl have started
for Liverpool ; for she fancies the old woman will feel
a bit lonesome. Th' Union is paying for your father,
I suppose ?"

" Yes, they've given him a sovereign. You're one of
th' Union, Job?"

" Ay I Fm one, sure enough ; but I'm but a sleep-
ing partner in the concern. I were obliged to become
a member for peace, else I don't go along with 'em.
Yo see they think themselves wise, and me silly, for
diiSering with them ; well! there's no harm in that.
But then they won't let me be silly in peace and quiet-
ness, but will force me to be as wise as they are ; now
that's not British liberty, I say. I'm forced to be wise
according to their notions, else they parsecute me, and
sarve me out."

What could her father be doing up-stairs ? Tramp-
ing and banging about. Why did he not come
down ? Or why did not Job go ? The supper would
be spoilt.

But Job had no notion of going.

" You see my folly is this, Mary. I would take
what I could get ; I think half a loaf is better than no
bread. I would work for low wages rather than sit
idle and starve. But, comes the Trades' Union, and
says, ' Well, if you take the half-loaf, we'll worry you
out of your life. Will you be clemmed, or will you be
worried ?' Now clemming is a quiet death, and worry-
ing isn't, so I choose clemming, and come into th*
Union. But I wish they'd leave me free, if I am a
fool."

312 MARY babtok:

Creak, creak, went the stairs. Her father was coming
down at last.

Yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than be-
fore, and made up for his journey, too ; with his little
bundle on his arm. He went up to Job, and, more
civifly than Mary expected, wished him good-bye.
He then turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade
her farewell.

" Oh ! father, don't go yet. Your supper is all ready.
Stay one moment !"

But he pushed her away, and was gone. She fol-
lowed him to the door, her eyes blinded by sudden
tears ; she stood there looking after him. He was so
strange, so cold, so hard. Suddenly, at the end of the
court, he turned, and saw^her standing there ; he came
back quickly, and took her in his arms.

"God bless thee, Mary! — God in heaven bless
thee, poor child!" She threw her arms round his
neck.

" Don't go yet, father; I can^t bear you to go yet.
Come in, and eat some supper ; you look so ghastly ;
dear father, do !"

" No," he said, faintly and mournfully. " It's best
as it is. I could not eat, and it's best to be off. I can-
not be still at home. I must be moving."

So saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and
kissing her once more, set off on his fierce errand.

And he was out of sight ! She did not know why,
but she had never before felt so depressed, so desolate.
She turned in to Job, who sat th^e still. Her father,
as soon as he was out of flight, slackened his pace, and

A TALE OF ICAKCHESTEB LIFE. 313

fell into that heavy listless step, which told as well as
words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. It was
getting dark, but he loitered on, returning no greeting
to any one.

A child's cry caught his ear. His thoughts were
running on little Tom ; on the dead and buried child
of happier years. He followed the sound of wail, that
might have been his^ and found a poor little mortal, who
had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up his
thoughts to the single want, "Mammy, mammy."
With tender address, John Barton soothed the little
laddie, and with beautiful patience he gathered frag-
ments of meaning from the half spoken words which
came mingled with sobs from the terrified little heart.
So, aided by inquiries here and there from a passer-by,
he led and carried the little fellow home, where his
mother had been too busy to miss him, but now received
him with thankfulness, and with an eloquent Irish
blessing. When John heard the words of blessing, he
shook his head mournfully, and turned away to retrace
his steps.

Let us leave him.

Mary took her sewing after he had gone, and sat on,
and sat on, trying to listen to Job, who was more in-
clined to talk than usual. She had conquered her feel-
ing of impatience towards him so far as to be able to
ofier him her father's rejected supper ; and she even
tried to eat herself. But her heart failed hen A leaden
weight seemed to hang over her ; a sort of presentiment
of evil, or perhaps only an excess of low-spirited feeling

314 MABY BABTOH:

in consequence of the two dq^artures which had taken
place that afternoon.

She wondered how long Job Legh would at. She
did not like putting down her work, and crying before
him, and yet she had never in her life longed so much
to be alone in order to indulge a good hearty burst of
tears.

" Well, Mary," she suddenly caught him saying, " I
thought you'd be a bit lonely to-night; and as Margaret
were going to cheer th' old woman, I s^d I'd go and
keep th* young im' company ; and a very pleasant,
chatty evening we've had; very. Only I wonder as
Margaret is not come back."

" But perhaps she is," suggested Mary.

" No, no, I took care o' that. Look ye here !" and
he pulled out the great house-key. " She'U have to
stand waiting in the street, and that I'm sure she
wouldn't do, when she knew where to find me."

" Will she come back by hersel ?*' asked
Mary.

** Ay. At first I were afraid o' trusting her, and I
used to follow her a bit behind ; never letting on, of
course. But, bless you ! she goes along as steadily as
can be; rather slow, to be sure, and her head a bit on
one side as if she were listening. And it's real beautiful
to see her cross the road. She^ll wait above a bit to
hear that all is still; not that she's so dark as not to see
a coach or a cart like a big black thing, but she can't
rightly judge how far off it is by sight, so she listens-
Hark! that's her!"

A TALE OF MANCHESTEB LIFE. 315

Yes ; in she came mtli her usually calm face, all tear-
stained and sorrow-marked.

" What's the matter, my wench ?^' said Job, hastily.

" Oh! grandfather! Alice Wilson's so bad!" She
could say no more, for her breathless agitation. The
afternoon, and the parting with Will, had weakened
her nerves for any after-shock.

" What is it? Do tell us, Margaret?" said Mary,
placing her in a chair, and loosening her bonnet-strings.

** I think it's a stroke o' the palsy. Any rate she has
lost the use of one side."

"Was it afore Will had set off?" asked Mary.

"No; he were gone before I got there," said Marga-^
ret; " and she were much about as well as she has been
this many a day. She spoke a bit, but not much; but
that were only natural, for Mrs. Wilson likes to have
the talk to hersel, you know. She got up to go across
the room, and then I heard a drag wi' her leg, and
presently a fall, and Mrs. Wilson came running, and
set up such a cry! I stopped wi' Alice, while she
fetched a doctor; but she could not speak, to answer
me, though she tried, I think."

" Where was Jem ? Why didn't he go for the
doctor?"

"He were out when I got there, and he never came
home while I stopped."

"Thou'st never left Mrs. Wilson alone wi' poor
AHce ?" asked Job, hastily.

"No, no," said Margaret. "But, oh! grandfather;
it's now I feel how hard it is to have lost my sight, I

316 MART BARTON :

should have so loved to nurse her; and I did try, until
I found I did more harm than good. Oh ! grandfather;
if I could but see !"

She sobbed a little; and they let her give that ease
to her heart. Then she went on —

** No ! I went round by Mrs. Davenport's, and she
were hard at work ; but, the minute I told my errand,
she were ready and willing to go to Jane Wilson, and
stop up all night with Alice/'

" And what does the doctor say ?" asked Mary.

" Oh ! much what all doctors say : he puts a fence
on this side, and a fence on that, for fear he should be
caught tripping in his judgment. One moment he
does not think there's much hope — but while there is
life there is hope; th' next he says he should think she
might recover partial, but her age is again her. He's
ordered her leeches to her head."

Margaret, having told her tale, Teant back with wea-
riness, both of body and mind. Mary hastened to make
her a cup of tea; while Job, lately so talkative, sat
quiet and mournfully silent.

"I'll go first thing to-morrow morning, and learn
how she is; and Pll bring word back before I go to
work," said Mary.

^* It's a bad job Will's gone," said Job.

" Jane does not think she knows any one," replied
Margaret. ** It's perhaps as well he shouldn't see her
now, for they say her face is sadly drawn. He'll re-
member her with her own face better, if he does not
Bee her again."

A TALE OP MANCHESTER LIFE. 317

With a few more sorrowful remarks they separated
for the night, and Mary was left alone in her house, to
meditate on the heavy day that had passed over her head.
Every thing seemed going wrong. Will gone ; her
father gone — and so strangely too! And to a place so
mysteriously distant as Glasgow seemed to be to her !
She had felt his presence as a protection against Harry
Carson and his threats; and now she dreaded lest he
should learn she was alone. Her heart began to despair,
too, about Jem. She feared he had ceased to love her ;
and she — she only loved him more and more for his
seeming neglect. And, as if all this aggregate of sor-
rowful thoughts was not enough, here was this new
woe, of poor Alice's paralytic stroke.

END OF VOL. I.

C WHITIKO, BEAUFOBT HOUSE, STAANSl.